


Winter's Tales: Indra's Underground

by AllTheBellsInVenice



Series: Winter's Tales [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Play, Angst, BDSM, BDSM Scene, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Bisexual Sherlock, Bondage, Breathplay, Comeplay, Confessions, Discussion of Racism, Dom/sub, Double Domming, Humiliation, Knife Play, M/M, Masturbation, Mindfuck, Multi, OC: Indra, Oral Sex, Orgasm Control, Paddling, Prequel, Shared Fantasy, Shibari, Spanking, Switching, Teaching, Threesome - F/M/M, Toys, Twentysomething Sherlock, Vaginal Sex, cultural insensitivity, cuz baby winterlock is a little dick, discussion of sexual exploitation of a teen, winter's tales
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-22
Updated: 2014-11-07
Packaged: 2018-02-18 09:12:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2343032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllTheBellsInVenice/pseuds/AllTheBellsInVenice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a cruel new dom shows up in Indra's private BDSM club, Indra takes matters into his own hands and turns the tables on the arrogant young Sherlock. Not for nothing is Indra the best in London. An origin story for the Winter AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A prequel to Winter.

The kid has a bad attitude. Indra can see that immediately. Just the arrogant way he walks across the floor of Indra’s Underground, seeming to glide above the music’s frenetic beat, the shine dripping down those black PVC trousers like crude oil. The cruel glance of his pale eyes as he saunters through the crowd, assessing the people around him like so many toys he plans to try at his leisure. The way his dominant hand twitches when he’s slithering up to a potential sub, as if he just can’t wait to strike. 

A sadist, then. Pain and control. Disturbingly young, no more than a few years out of uni. And as yet showing few signs of respect or humility. Worse yet, the kid’s beautiful, tall and saturnine, with breathtaking poise and grace. Of course the subs here tonight, some of them new to the scene, are already mesmerised by this elegant young snake. 

Indra lets his black eyes narrow. 

“What do we know about this new dom?” Indra says to his business partner, keeping his eyes on the boy across the room as those long fingers slide up the front of a young woman’s corset, so pale against the black damask. She’s got wide eyes locked on his, barely breathing as his other hand circles her wrist, lightly touching the pulse point before locking hard to capture her.

“We don’t know anything about him,” answers Rosaline. She’s been watching the boy too, of course. “Tonight’s the first I’ve seen him. Pretty one. Charismatic.” 

“And clearly he knows it,” Indra says. The kid’s touching the top of the girl’s corset now, still prisoning her wrist in his other hand. As Indra watches, those fingers ghost over the top of her breast and slip down inside the corset, seeking, gripping, pinching. The girl tenses, appears to lean away from his touch, but his grip on her wrist holds her in place. It looks borderline, pushing the boundaries of the rule against nonconsensual touch. 

Indra frowns, levers himself away from the stage where he’s been leaning, ready to intervene. But now the girl is pulling the new boy down into a kiss, even as he expertly tucks her wrist behind her back. Clearly the attentions are welcome...for the moment. Indra relaxes, just a bit. 

“Rosaline, watch him,” Indra instructs her. “Something about him is bothering me. I need to talk to the next DJ for a moment. I’ll be right back, but don’t take your eyes off him, all right?”

“No fear,” murmurs Rosaline, but Indra trusts her. After one last sweep of his eyes around his club, he pulls the curtain aside and disappears. 

Five minutes later, Indra resumes his accustomed station next to the stage. “Any trouble from our new friend?” he asks Rosaline, running brown fingers through his swiftly greying hair. 

“Depends on what you consider trouble,” Rosaline says, nodding toward one side of the club. “He’s cutting a wide swath, Indra. Picked up another one while you were gone.”

“God,” Indra says, finally catching sight of the new kid. He has a young man backed against the side wall and is speaking in his ear, his free hand still grasping the watching girl by the wrist. Indra wonders what he’s saying; the boy looks utterly dazed. 

But the other boy isn’t actually trapped in place, Indra sees. Again, barely within the rules, pushing the limits of what Indra will allow in his club, between total strangers with no negotiated relationship.

Indra folds his arms, annoyed. He hates having to wade in and confront rule-breakers. It’s bad for business, puts all his customers on edge. But Indra won’t tolerate predators, abusers in dom’s clothing. He’s proud of his club’s reputation as a safe space to explore, especially for the younger set. If it turns out that this kid’s looking for an easy mark, Indra won’t hesitate to pitch him out onto the London sidewalk. No matter how beautiful he may be, how much potential he may have…

He does have potential, undeniably. Indra doesn’t miss the smooth way he guides both his prizes over to a low sofa, controlling two subs at once with perfect nonchalance. Practised at that, certainly. 

The young dom pulls his two prizes down to sit on either side of him. Taking each of them by the hair, he pulls first one, then the other into a bruising kiss. Then he sits back, letting them run their hands and mouths over his chest, neck, belly...lower. His eyes close lazily; he’s accepting their attentions as his right. Indra relaxes for a moment, feeling free to turn his attention elsewhere.

Indra moves among the other guests, talking with his regulars, greeting the newcomers and quietly offering bits of instruction here and there: how to tie a safer knot, the best place to spank for maximum sensation. He makes sure there are enough condoms and other supplies; he runs a private club and can allow activities others forbid. It requires extra supervision, more rules, but Indra is happy to care for his guests. 

When Indra works his way around to the low sofa, he sees the young dom getting to his feet and pulling his clothing back into place. His lips are pink and kiss-swollen, his eyes full of lust and a darker, more dangerous glint. 

A few terse gestures and low words; clearly, he’s bidding his boy and girl to turn over and kneel on the firm cushions, holding onto the sofa’s back. As they obey, Indra sees that their faces are tense, smiling...nervous. The young dom steps up behind them and, without warning, raises both his hands and delivers two heavy swats. 

The boy and the girl both give the requisite yelp and squirm of those spanked in public for the first time, and dissolve into the expected giggles. The dom allows no recovery time before giving them another, harder spank. 

“Ouch,” Indra hears clearly from the girl, turning to look back over her shoulder. But the dom just curls his lip and hits them both again, and the girl jerks, almost falling over.

Indra stands up, walks over to the triad. He bends to speak to the girl first. “Are you all right?” he asks. “He’s treating you as you agreed?” It’s just a spanking, and over clothing. But Indra doesn’t much like the impatient look he just saw on the new dom’s face at the girl’s complaint.

“Fine, it’s fine,” the girl says, ducking her head, shy under Indra’s scrutiny. So Indra takes her at her word, nods, and stands to face the new boy. 

“What’s your name?” Indra asks, not unkindly. He’s always ready to teach, if it will help at all.

“Sigerson,” the boy says, not smiling or extending his hand. “Who the hell are you?”

“Indra,” he replies calmly. “You may recognize the name. It’s over the door. ID, please.”

The boy’s eyes barely flicker as he pulls his wallet from those PVC trousers and hands over the card. The subs are looking back at them, and Indra sees him extend a quelling hand, bidding them to stay in place. 

Sherlock Holmes, Indra reads on the ident card. Unusual name; no wonder he already uses a sobriquet. He hands the card back to the boy. 

“You're an unknown here, and you’ve just met these two. Now is not the time to push boundaries, Sigerson,” Indra tells him. “Especially not mine.”

“I’ve read the rules,” Sherlock says carefully. “You’ll note I haven’t broken any.” 

“Keep to the spirit of my rules as well as the letter, and we won’t have a problem, Sigerson. Carry on.” And Indra looks down at the boy and the girl, who haven’t moved at all, then withdraws with a final glance at Sherlock’s cold face. 

&&&&

Three weeks later, Indra is up on the catwalk fixing a light and happens to look down. He twists his mouth as he sees Sherlock bending yet another young man over Indra’s sawhorse. The boy is red-faced, almost weeping as Sherlock stands over him, twisting his fingers in his hair and giving him crack after crack of a viciously narrow little paddle, right across his naked arse. 

The boy hasn’t yet called the club safeword. He probably should do, but clearly he doesn’t want to disappoint Sherlock. The panic in the sub’s eyes and body language is growing obvious, and a few of the watchers are already shifting nervously. Time to take action. But as Indra makes for the ladder, Sherlock doesn’t pause, doesn’t check in with the boy. He just keeps on walloping, those eerie eyes reflecting the red lights. 

Suddenly, Sherlock throws the paddle aside without looking; Indra’s eye twitches. Feeling anger spark, he moves as quickly as possible across the crowded dancing floor, still watching as best he can. Between the gyrating bodies, he sees Sherlock pushing behind his sub, hand still fisted in his hair, and opening his trousers. The boy jerks at the sound of his zip and finally calls the safeword. To Indra’s disgust, Sherlock gives a snarl of rage; he jerks the boy’s scalp once more before releasing him. 

Rosaline get there first, a few seconds ahead of Indra. She puts herself between Sherlock and the boy, who’s now crying openly, and warns Sherlock back. 

“Take care of Toby, Rosaline. I’ll deal with Sigerson,” Indra tells her, and seizes Sherlock’s arm. 

“Throwing me out, are you? Took you long enough,” Sherlock says, his voice infuriatingly careless. 

“No, not throwing you out. Worse.” And instead of pushing him toward the entrance, Indra pulls Sherlock back behind the curtain, then bangs open a door, dragging Sherlock to the inner rooms of his club. 

In the old parlour, Indra dumps Sherlock onto a threadbare velvet sofa. “What the hell is wrong with you, Sherlock?” asks Indra, as the boy pouts and rubs his arm. 

“He told me he wanted a paddling, then sex,” Sherlock says, sullen. “Just like we’ve already done at his flat half a dozen times. Then the minute things start to get interesting here at the club, he decides to change his mind. And you expect me to just accept that?”

“Yes, Sherlock. I do,” Indra says, stopping in front of the boy, letting his dark eyes flash dangerously. “Subs are free to change their minds at any moment, for any reason. They trust us, they put their well-being in our hands, let us do dangerous things in as much safety as possible. It’s a gift they give us, not a right you’re owed. Basics, Sherlock!” Indra forces himself to relax his hands. 

“The subs all love me,” Sherlock says, folding his arms and raising defiant eyes. “You know they do. You’ve had twice as much business since I arrived, Indra. They all want me.”

“Of course they do. You have that indefinable something. Confident. Forceful. Downright scary,” Indra retorts, leaving unspoken the fact of Sherlock’s blinding attractiveness. “But all that needs to be an act, a game. Under it all, real doms are respectful and caring. But the game is far too real for you, Sherlock. You keep crossing the line.”

“Then why don’t you just throw me out?” Sherlock asks, ruffling his sweat-dark curls with one hand.

Indra sags into the desk chair opposite, rubs his brown face. “To be frank, you scare the shit out of me. Because if I throw you out of my club, you’ll just go elsewhere. You won’t stop. Word does get out about people like you, but London is a big place. You’re going to hurt people, Sherlock. I know it like I know my own real name. And if I can possibly prevent that from happening, I will.”

“Oh, yes, Indra. Fairy godfather of the London scene. Not to mention self-appointed judge and jury.” Sherlock replies cooly, lip curling in that maddening way of his. 

Indra doesn’t rise to the bait. “You need to learn, Sherlock. Real doms do what we do for our subs as much as for ourselves. Sherlock, let me tell you a little pet theory of mine: every good dom loves his sub, at least in that moment she’s giving him her trust.”

Sherlock gives a snort. “Please, spare me the sentimentality, Indra. Love is merely a chemical reaction, a set of occasionally adaptive behaviors inextricable from the human animal’s unusually long period of childhood dependency.” He turns his head to fix challenging eyes on Indra’s. 

“Who told you that?” Indra asks, stunned. 

“Someone whose intelligence I respect,” Sherlock says, lowering his eyelids at Indra. “I’ve since made a personal study of the phenomenon, particularly of the forms of eusocial behavior in the order Hymenoptera---” 

“Shut up,” Indra breaks in quietly. “Sherlock, let me put this in a way that you can understand: knowing how to love is a form of intelligence.” 

Silence lengthens between them, and Indra holds Sherlock’s gaze until the boy breaks eye contact and looks at the floor.

“That makes no sense whatsoever, Indra,” says Sherlock, getting to his feet. “Rather, listening to your moralising is a form of torment. You clearly don’t want me at your club. I won’t trouble you any longer.”

Indra takes a breath and plays his final card. “How well do you understand submissives, Sherlock?”

“What?” The boy stops with his hand on the doorknob. “They like control and power.”

“Yes, but why?”

Sherlock blinks, and Indra presses on. “Have you ever tried playing the role?”

“Of a sub? Of course not. Why would I ever want to do that?” 

The contempt in Sherlock’s voice sickens Indra, but he keeps talking, sensing Sherlock’s interest. “Oh, you’re a dom to the bone, Sherlock. Clearly. But wouldn’t it be interesting to explore the sub’s mindset? Just as an experiment.” Indra watches Sherlock carefully. 

“What exactly are you proposing?” Sherlock takes his hand off the doorknob and faces Indra, wariness in every line of his body. 

“Nothing much. Just a few exercises to give you a glimpse of your subs’ perspective. It’ll make you a better dom. And I’m hoping it’ll make you a more ethical one, which is the same thing. But if nothing else, if you learn well, I’ll allow you to come back to this club.” 

Indra pauses. Sherlock’s face is guarded, but he’s studying Indra closely now. Trying to read his intentions? 

Indra stands naturally, letting Sherlock read his confidence in his own motives. Indra has his choice of willing partners. There’s no hidden agenda, no untoward interest in the boy. Oh, of course he finds Sherlock attractive. But their encounters will be work for Indra, not play. He waits, giving Sherlock time.

Seemingly Indra passes the test; Sherlock seems to relax a bit. “That could be interesting,” Sherlock says grudgingly. “And there’s really no place better than Indra’s Underground. You think I’d learn something useful, do you?”

“I know you will. And by making it known that you’re training with me, you can repair the damage you just did to your reputation.” 

Sherlock looks up, frowning, then sets his mouth. “I suppose,” he mutters. 

“Good. Reputation is paramount. Now, you’re no longer welcome on the floor this evening, as I’m sure you’ve already realised. Take my card,” Indra says, extending it. “Email me your hard limits before tomorrow afternoon at three o’clock. That’s when you will return here, and knock on the side door.”

Sherlock hesitates a long moment, then nods and accepts the card. Opening the door, he leaves without another word, tension clear in the set of his shoulders. 

Indra allows himself a small smile. Sherlock will show up. If nothing else, he’s too curious not to. Indra is counting on it.

&&&&

On the first day, Sherlock knocks as instructed. Rosaline opens the door and shows Sherlock to the space behind the small stage. Indra is leaning casually on the arch by the closed curtain in his usual crisp shirt and fine dress trousers. There’s a box beside him in the deeper shadows, and a thin mat laid out on the carefully swept floor. 

“Sherlock,” Indra says. “I’m glad you came. I received your email...interesting. Now, a few rules before we begin.” Sherlock sighs in annoyance, the entitled little bastard, but doesn’t interrupt. 

“First, you agree to do everything I say, or this exercise is pointless. Second, you’re responsible for communicating any problems to me. If you need to, you will use the club safewords. Say them.”

Sherlock gives the barest frown. “Red for stop. Yellow for slow down, and green for still okay.” 

Still okay? What a telling way to put it. Indra lets it pass for now.

“Third, you will respect the time and effort I’m giving you, Sherlock.” Indra pauses, then moves on.

“Fourth, you will admit to yourself that you don’t know everything. In fact I’m sure you’ll soon be astounded at how little you know. Now, take your clothes off and put them on the chair.”

Sherlock doesn’t move. His shoulders rise and fall. Indra waits, arms folded, face impassive. 

Finally, Sherlock’s curiosity gets the better of him. He pulls off his black jacket, then his navy t-shirt, piling them on the folding chair. Standing lean and pale in the dimness, Sherlock drops his hands to the belt of his jeans. He glances up at Indra then, uncertain. 

“Yes, Sherlock. Everything.” Indra lets a touch of false boredom creep into his voice. 

Sherlock flushes, then opens his belt. Too late, he remembers his shoes, and bends to untie them as his belt buckle jangles uselessly. After a tense moment, Sherlock stands naked before Indra, the long white line of his form interrupted only by the dark hair of his head and body. He’s trying to look careless, but Indra can see his stress in the line of that long neck. 

Finally, Indra stands upright and prowls slowly toward Sherlock, walking around him, looking his body up and down as Sherlock tries not to cringe. Suddenly, Indra flicks a fingernail against Sherlock’s taut belly, below his navel. Sherlock flinches. But Indra doesn’t comment. 

“Kneel on the mat,” he says finally. “I’m going to tie you.”

Sherlock steps to the mat and sinks to his knees, still graceful despite his clear anxiety. Behind him, Indra allows himself an appreciative grin, running his hands along the long hemp rope he’s taken from the box. 

“Sit on your heels. Hands behind your back.”

Indra positions Sherlock’s forearms behind his narrow waist, one on top of the other. Indra hears the tiniest exhale as he passes the doubled rope over and around Sherlock’s wrists. 

As Indra finishes the first knot and passes the long ends around Sherlock’s chest, Sherlock says, “Why do you dress like that all the time? Dress shirt and suit, like you’re a banker or something. Bit pretentious for a bloke who runs a nightclub.”

Ah, the attitude. Indra answers blandly as he continues to lay rope on that white flesh. “You may be interested to know that the club is my pet project. I work in finance. But I prefer to dress like this regardless. It fits how I feel inside.”

Sherlock passes over that intimate detail. “You work ‘in finance.’ Yet here you are on a weekday afternoon. Are you the caretaker, then?”

He’s fishing for a reaction. He’ll be disappointed. “I set my own hours,” Indra says. “It’s my firm, after all.” 

Sherlock doesn’t reply. 

Indra splits the doubled lines again, loops the rope under Sherlock’s arms and over his shoulders, finally catching all the lines together in the middle of Sherlock’s chest. Then he stands in front of the boy, bending to lay a brown hand at the place where all the ropes join, and pulls firmly on the free ends. Sherlock’s bondage tightens. The boy grunts, feeling the ropes hug him, and his lip twitches into a snarl as he stares up into Indra’s face. 

“Indra. Fascinating choice of name,” Sherlock says, his voice just slightly strained. “Some kind of Hindu god? Does your mummy know you’re co-opting her religion just so you can seem all mysterious and powerful?” 

For the first time, Indra feels a flash of annoyance, but easily masters his reaction before it can show. “I didn’t choose this name lightly. And I urge you to think before you make ignorant assumptions. I do notice,” Indra continues, smiling a little, “that you seem keenly interested in me, Sherlock. What else have you been wondering about?”

For the second time, Sherlock has no reply. His eyes flick away from Indra, down to the floor. 

“Now spread your legs.” Oh, that was certainly a shiver. 

Indra works quickly, measuring Sherlock’s body with his hands and making a few overhand knots in the doubled rope. He passes the knotted rope down Sherlock’s belly and between his spread knees. He nestles one of the knots into the dark hair just above Sherlock’s stirring cock, and the other…

Indra gathers the remaining rope into a loose coil. Suddenly, Indra bends and throws the coil under Sherlock’s parted legs, enjoying the way the boy starts. Then he walks around and picks up the ropes again. Indra stands behind Sherlock with a hand on his own waist, nonchalant, and tugs the rope tightly up into the cleft of Sherlock’s arse. The boy hisses in surprise. 

“Yes. You feel that second knot. Sensitive little spot, isn’t it.” Indra twists his mouth, and tugs again before quickly tying off the ends of the rope on Sherlock’s stacked forearms, finishing where he started. “This is your own rope now, clearly.”

Sherlock sags, those plush lips parted slightly. He can’t move much without tugging on the knots that press against his cock and his anus, and Indra stands back, satisfied with his work. For a moment, he admires the enticing picture the boy makes, trembling in his bindings. 

Then Indra pulls over another folding chair and sits down, right in front of Sherlock. He takes a folded paper, his cheque book, and a small calculator out of the box. Resting one foot on the opposite knee, he opens the cheque book and looks closely at it. 

Sherlock waits. And waits, a frown growing on that pretty face. Long minutes pass, and Indra doesn’t move, except to press the calculator’s keys.

“Indra. Are you actually balancing your cheque book?” Sherlock’s voice is rough with disbelief. “While I’m tied up here?” 

“Oh, feeling ignored?” Indra replies without lifting his eyes from the calculator. His fingers dance over the keys, and he reaches absently for the small pen he keeps in his shirt pocket. “Try to be a bit patient, Sherlock. And unless something is pinching or tingling too much and you need to say the safeword, be quiet. I’m working.” 

It’s been only about ten minutes, but out of his peripheral vision, Indra sees Sherlock growing agitated. The boy has been glaring fixedly at Indra’s face, and eventually he’s begging with his eyes. He’s panting a little, too, possibly because his cock is now standing proudly at attention and he can’t hide it, touch himself, or do a single thing about it. 

At one point, Rosaline walks in and asks Indra a few questions about the club’s security company, then leaves again without so much as a glance at Sherlock. After that, the boy grows quiet and still, looking at the ground. Indra had replied to Sherlock’s email, telling him that it would be himself and Rosaline here today, but now Indra could see him wondering whether Rosaline’s fleeting presence would be all he’d get from her. 

“Indra,” Sherlock finally pleads. “Please. Do something to me. Anything. The boredom is intolerable.” 

“You’re not bored. Now, silence. Or safeword,” Indra replies, entering another figure into the column. 

It takes only one more minute before Sherlock gasps and says, “Red. Red.”

Indra drops everything he’s holding to the floor and is at Sherlock’s side in two seconds. Working swiftly, he loosens Sherlock’s bondage with the quick releases he’d placed earlier. As he frees Sherlock, he says, “Tell me.”

“Leg cramps,” Sherlock mumbles. 

“Anything else?” Indra says, untying Sherlock’s forearms. Sherlock says nothing, and Indra runs his hands over the marks of the rope. “Stretch your arms. Then stand if you can, slowly.”

Eventually, Sherlock totters to his feet with Indra’s help. Indra guides him to another folding chair, then tosses the used rope into a laundry basket. 

Sherlock looks dazed, lost. Indra moves his chair beside Sherlock’s, then puts an arm around him and pulls him close. Sherlock lets him.

“I’m sorry,” Indra hears from the curly head against his shoulder. “Sorry I said the safeword.”

“Not at all. It’s no shame to safeword, Sherlock. If some doms---” like you, Indra doesn’t say, “---treat it as a sign of failure, they’re mistaken. I ordered you to use the safeword if you needed it, and you obeyed. I’m pleased with you, Sherlock.” Indra runs his other hand over Sherlock’s hair. 

Rosaline re-enters on soft feet and silently hands Sherlock a glass of water. He holds the glass without seeing it. 

“Drink it, Sherlock,” Indra says patiently, and Sherlock takes a sip. 

Indra holds him for a few minutes more, until Sherlock sits up and looks at him, expectantly.

“Get dressed,” Indra says. “We’re done for today.”

Sherlock’s lips part, and confusion and disappointment pass over his fine features. Indra smiles. 

“Did you want more?” Indra asks.

“I thought…” Sherlock pauses, then continues in a rush. “I thought you’d punish me, make me do things, I thought there would be...more than this.”

“All in good time, Sherlock. This is enough for now.” Indra watches him get dressed, then escorts him to the side door. Before opening it, Indra turns to Sherlock. 

“Come here,” he says, and pulls the boy into a friendly embrace. “You did well today, you know. I’m pleasantly surprised. If you’re interested in continuing the experiment, email me. I’ll be happy to do the honours.”

Sherlock is stiff in his arms, but he returns the hug. “Thank you, Indra,” he says slowly, as if unaccustomed to the phrase. 

“I won’t ignore you again,” Indra promises, and Sherlock gives him a hint of a smile.

&&&&

On the second day, Sherlock arrives ten minutes after the appointed hour. Indra takes him behind the stage again and tells him to strip. 

“You were late, Sherlock. I expect you to respect the time we’ve scheduled. Between the firm and the club, do you know how difficult it is for me to find a free hour? Hands and knees. Now.”

Sherlock’s emails have been terse, but Indra understands Sherlock’s way of communicating what he’d like to experience next. He wasn’t late by accident. 

Indra walks around Sherlock, now naked and on all fours on the bare floor. “Hmm. I think you still need to be tied. Pass me that box.”

Indra takes out the same hemp rope, now washed and beautifully coiled, and a thick bamboo rod about a meter long. Sherlock’s eyes widen.

Indra raises his greying eyebrows, then pulls a heavy pair of safety scissors from the box and snips the long rope into two pieces at its center point. Two quick loops of electrical tape secure the cut ends, and then Indra approaches Sherlock and casually sets the two coils on his back. 

“This tie is simple but incredibly effective,” he tells Sherlock, who hasn’t spoken a word so far. “It holds the deserving in place for punishment, and it also gives me a rather nice view.” 

Sherlock tenses visibly when Indra says “punishment.” He cringes when Indra smacks the bamboo rod into his palm a few times, then whips it through the air to make the hollow end whistle. And when Indra bends to set the rod flat on top of Sherlock’s ankles, he actually flinches. 

“Ha. I never did mention what the bamboo was for, did I.”

Indra takes one of the ropes off Sherlock’s back, then loops it around the rod and limb, tying Sherlock’s ankle firmly to the bamboo. He does the same for the other ankle. 

“Now, Sherlock, I want you to lower your shoulders to the ground, reach back, and press your wrists under the bamboo, next to your ankles.” 

Sherlock swallows, hesitates for three seconds, then obeys, ending up with his arse in the air in a position that Indra finds delectably vulnerable. Indra ties off his wrists with the remainder of the rope, then stands back. 

“Beautiful, Sherlock. You’re very pretty in this position, as I know well since I can see absolutely everything. I’m going to enjoy this.” He lays a hand on the small of Sherlock’s back, then gives him a heavy spank. 

Sherlock lurches. Indra smiles, and gives him another. “I won’t abide lateness, Sherlock,” Indra says as he lands four, five, six more swats on Sherlock’s swiftly reddening behind. “It’s a form of disrespect. Which reminds me, I’m also going to punish you for your rude remarks during our last session.”

Ten, eleven, twelve. Sherlock is starting to wriggle. Eighteen, nineteen, twenty. He’s breathing hard. Indra stands and steps back, shaking his fingers. 

“That’s for the lateness,” he says, and Sherlock’s face crumples. “Next, for the bad manners.” He bends to the box, picks out two items, and folds his arms to wait a few moments. Let Sherlock wait, feeling the sting and glow in his arse and wondering what will happen to him next. 

Indra opens a ziptop plastic bag he’s prepared, and takes out a slim plastic object. The business end is already coated with lubricant, so all Indra has to do is step up to Sherlock and position the tip of the plug against his tightly furled opening. Sherlock huffs out an exhale as the cool plastic touches him. 

“You can use your safewords anytime, Sherlock,” Indra reminds him. “Though if you do, I’ll still punish you, in some different way.” He allows a few seconds, but Sherlock says nothing, and Indra runs his other hand down the boy’s spine. “Relax for me, Sherlock.” 

It’s a tiny thing, really. It’s seated in just a moment. But Sherlock is affected so beautifully by the delicate intrusion. “Look at you, Sherlock. Your face is as red as your arse.” Indra stands and walks around Sherlock. “Rosaline might walk in at any moment, you know. If you ask me to, I’ll gladly lock the door.” 

“Please. Yes, please lock the door,” Sherlock whispers, and Indra walks over to click the lock into place. Good. Sherlock has both admitted to the humiliation he feels, and also chosen to set a limit. Nice and neat. 

“Now,” Indra says, holding up the other object. “Your arse has been well warmed up. I have here the same type of narrow little paddle you were using on Toby the other night, when we had our unfortunate incident. If you call yourself a proper dom, you’ve already tested this little beauty on yourself, right?”

“Have you tested it?” Sherlock gasps out. Misdirection. 

“Of course. And you didn’t answer my question. But I’m sure the answer is no, which is extremely disappointing, Sherlock. Let’s rectify that lack.” And Indra brings the paddle down on the tender, lower part of Sherlock’s arse, carefully avoiding both the plug and his bollocks. 

“Jesus!” Sherlock’s whole body skids an inch across the floor. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

“Give me your safeword if you can’t take what you dish out,” Indra taunts. Sherlock remains silent, so Indra gives him another whack. 

“Fuck,” Sherlock spits into the floor, grimacing. Indra lands a nasty swat in the same place, and for the first time, Sherlock shouts aloud. 

“It took me a few moments to climb down from the catwalk that night. In that time you gave him ten, maybe twelve blows, and that was just what I actually saw. Can you take twelve blows of this paddle, Sherlock?” Indra gives him another, harder this time, and Sherlock screams. 

“What if I pull your hair too, like you were doing to Toby?” Indra says, low and dangerous. He threads his fingers into Sherlock’s curls, tightens them slowly into a fist. Sherlock whimpers, a long, anguished sound. “Sensitive scalp, I see. Is Toby’s scalp sensitive, too?” Indra paddles him a fifth time, and Sherlock shatters. 

“Yellow, yellow, Indra. Please stop the paddle. God.” There’s wetness on the floor under Sherlock’s face.

“Yellow, not red?” Indra asks, releasing his hair. “Interesting, Sherlock. Also interesting that you couldn’t take even half of what I watched you give Toby.” Indra stands. “So. What do you know now that you didn’t know before I paddled you, Sherlock?”

The boy says nothing. Indra lets the silence stretch. 

Finally, Sherlock mumbles against the floor. “Well, the paddle fucking hurts.”

“Indeed. And?”

Another moment. Then, “And Toby can take a lot more pain than I can.” 

“So what do you owe Toby?” Indra asks patiently.

“Respect. And...an apology for the way I acted.” Sherlock’s voice is subdued, defeated. 

“Very good, Sherlock. Well reasoned. Would you like to come?”

“I...oh god.” Sherlock turns his face away. Though how he expected to hide his erection, Indra has no idea. Bit surprising, really, but certainly the plug is helping. “Yes, Indra.”

“Right-handed, are you?” Indra walks around Sherlock. As he passes his arse, he reaches down and presses the button on the tiny vibrator, feeling it buzz to life.

“Fuck, oh fuck.” Sherlock writhes in his bonds.

As soon as Indra unwraps his right wrist, Sherlock grabs between his legs for his cock. Teetering a little in the awkward position, taking some of his weight on his face, Sherlock gives himself rough strokes, spreading the fluid that’s leaking from the tip. Indra stands over him so that Sherlock can see his dress shoes. 

“God, Indra, I can’t...with you watching.” 

“I think you can.” Indra folds his arms. 

Sure enough, after a few fits and starts, Sherlock groans and climaxes in thick ropes onto the black-painted wood, his whole body trembling. Indra exhales silently above him. What a breathtaking sight Sherlock is, trussed, red-arsed and coming helplessly onto the floor.

He lets Sherlock lie there, gasping, for only a moment before saying offhandedly, “Ever been fucked in the arse?”

The boy’s mouth spasms, and his eyes close once more. “No. Just...I’ve just explored.”

“Perhaps later, Sherlock, we’ll find a way to make that happen for you. I have a woman friend with some interesting skills and equipment.” He watches Sherlock carefully as he speaks. Sure enough, he notices Sherlock sag with disappointment, just the tiniest bit. 

“Well. Time enough for such things in the future.” Indra reaches down to loosen the rest of the bonds slightly, then slides the bamboo rod away. With the rod gone, Sherlock’s bonds fall apart, and Sherlock turns his head, dazed to find himself suddenly free. Indra gently guides him to lie on his side, where he slowly curls into a ball. Sherlock sighs with relief; no doubt his knees have been aching for some time.

Indra reaches down and, with a whispered word, turns off the tiny vibrator. He gently draws it out, dropping it into its plastic bag once more. Then he lies down behind Sherlock, curving his body around the boy and encircling his chest with one arm. 

“You did wonderfully, Sherlock. I’m so proud of you,” Indra croons in Sherlock’s ear. Then the boy astonishes him. 

“Thank you,” he says humbly. His voice really is rather lovely. “Thank you, Indra.”


	2. Chapter 2

On the third day, Indra ushers Sherlock onto the brightly lit stage itself. Today will be a special day for the boy, as Indra has explained via email. Today he’ll have an audience, but it won’t be quite as Sherlock expected. 

Indra watches Sherlock’s eyes widen as he catches sight of the lovely young woman sitting comfortably in one of two armchairs. Rosaline tosses her brown hair over one shoulder and favors Sherlock with a slow smile.

Rosaline is young, not much older than Sherlock himself. But Indra trusts her absolutely, both as a business partner and as a domme. She’ll be the perfect accomplice today as Indra takes Sherlock further down the rabbit hole. 

“Clothes off,” Rosaline tells Sherlock airily in her sweet, high voice, tapping her crop against one high-heeled shoe. “Do you really still need to be told, pretty boy?”

Indra goes to sit in the other armchair, swinging a long leg carelessly over one of the arms and lacing his fingers. To his slight displeasure, Sherlock is hesitating, looking between Rosaline and himself. “Do as Rosaline says, Sherlock,” Indra tells him sternly. 

Sherlock takes a breath, then quickly strips off what seems to be his uniform of leather jacket, t-shirt, dark jeans, and trainers. “Oh, keep those tight little pants on for now,” Rosaline calls, in that tone Indra recognizes as her ‘I’ve had an idea’ voice. “They’re very cute.” 

Rosaline’s right; the thin fabric hugs Sherlock’s pretty arse and tightly cups his genitals in a way that’s simply fetching. “Turn ‘round,” she tells him, twirling the head of her crop in the air. “Mmm. What a very lovely boy you are.”

Sherlock reddens as he turns, shifting from foot to foot and looking more exposed, somehow, in just his underwear than he would look in nothing at all. Indra’s mouth curls in a smirk; all that pale, pale skin is so enticingly reactive. He’ll very much enjoy watching different bits of Sherlock turning pink today. 

“Now,” Rosaline says, gesturing upward with her crop. “Do you see that bar?” 

Sherlock looks up, shielding his eyes against the pure glare of the stage lights. Straight overhead hangs a simple trapeze bar, dangling in midair from the strong steel frame high above the stage. The bar is several feet up. “I see it,” says Sherlock.

“Jump for it,” Rosaline says sweetly.

Sherlock squares his shoulders. He frowns up at the bar, gauging the distance, then squats down and leaps into the air. Oh, the play of his muscles is criminally beautiful, but even so, Sherlock fails. His fingertips slap the bar and send it twisting and swinging. Sherlock mutters a curse, and Rosaline laughs. 

“Try again,” she tells him. “Give me your very best this time, Sherlock.” Her crop taps against her shoe, harder. 

Sherlock huffs, annoyed, and glances at Indra before turning his eyes upward again. As those finely chiseled legs bend, Indra finds himself hoping that Sherlock will again fall short of the bar, so he can watch Sherlock leap time and time again. Disappointingly, however, Sherlock grabs the bar this time with a grunt of triumph. Grabbing it with his other hand, he hangs several feet over the stage, gently spinning, every muscle standing out under his skin.

Indra gets up and walks away, out of the pool of bright light. “Indra,” Sherlock calls down, low and urgent. “Where are you going---?” 

“I’m walking to the rope hitch on the wall,” Indra replies. “We’re going to lower you.”

“A little,” Rosaline says with a short laugh.

Indra unhitches the rope and uses the block and tackle to lower Sherlock carefully toward the stage, tying off the rope securely when Sherlock is able to rest his weight on his toes, but not his heels. The position pitches Sherlock’s chest forward slightly and pushes his hips backward; the straining line of his body is glorious against the black void of the empty club beyond. Rosaline rises from her chair. 

“Nothing’s forcing you to display yourself like this, Sherlock darling,” she croons, walking around him, her high heels clicking against the wood of the stage. “Nothing’s holding you to the bar except your obedience. But, of course, Indra and I want you to hang onto the bar, Sherlock. No matter what happens to you. Hang onto the bar.”

She touches Sherlock’s taut belly with the crop’s leather tab, draws it slowly up his chest and across one dusky nipple. Sherlock shivers. “You’re so tender,” Rosaline coos, running the leather deliciously over his body, up his long neck, down his cheekbone, over his trembling lips. 

Suddenly, Rosaline swings the crop, snapping the tab against the bulge of muscle just above his underarm. Sherlock flinches and hisses through his teeth. His eyes flicker to Indra. 

Curious. Really, Sherlock ought to be paying closer attention to the woman wielding the crop, and Rosaline evidently agrees with Indra. Cruelly, she gives the boy another snap, right against Sherlock’s nipple. “Do try to concentrate, Sherlock.” And a third, on the other nipple. 

Sherlock gasps as pink blooms softly on his skin, and his eyes move to Rosaline. But as soon as Rosaline walks behind him, snapping the crop against the backs of Sherlock’s thighs, those pale eyes slide back to Indra again. Very interesting. 

Sherlock’s eyes on his are full of meaning, brimming with some strong emotion that Indra can’t quite read yet. Maybe Sherlock himself doesn’t quite know what he’s trying to convey. Perhaps the boy needs time to think. But not now.

“Blindfold, I think, Rosaline,” Indra drawls over his laced fingers. “Help him to focus on the moment.”

“Wonderful idea, Indra,” Rosaline says, and walks over to the box of toys that has become Sherlock’s. “Oh, you’ve put some very interesting things in here, haven’t you.”

“Yes,” Indra says mildly. “We may get to use some of them today for the first time.”

“If you’re good, Sherlock,” Rosaline says softly as she reaches up to drop the blindfold around Sherlock’s eyes. Until the last second, Sherlock watches Indra’s face. 

Once he’s blindfolded, Sherlock seems to sag for a moment, then rallies, his head moving upright again, body tensing, his mouth set with determination. Privately, Indra grins. Oh, these sweet new subs, when they’re first blindfolded. They can’t see others, so they forget everyone can still see them. Not for long.

“Now, Sherlock,” Rosaline says, drawing the silky leather tab down the line of dark hair on Sherlock’s belly and over his erection, so cruelly caged by his tight underwear. She smiles at his faint moan. “I have the crop. And I want you to pay...close...attention.”

She punctuates each word with a sharp snap against Sherlock’s upper thighs, the last one landing perilously close to his bollocks. Flinching and yelping, Sherlock raises one knee to protect himself, a reflex that only earns him a merciless volley of blows to that thigh. He drops the leg again, struggling for balance and twisting a bit under the trapeze bar. 

Rosaline walks behind him and hooks one slender finger into the waistband of his underwear. “Naughty boy, lifting your leg like that. Not exactly dignified, are you, Sherlock. Time for some real punishment.” She pulls the underwear down over his arse, exposing those white cheeks, and Indra watches as the tight band snaps down over Sherlock’s hard cock. The erection bounces against Sherlock’s belly, pulling a low groan from his mouth. Beautiful. 

Beautiful, too, the way that cock jumps and strains as Rosaline crops his arse, hard. Lovely, the way beads of sweat are starting to collect on Sherlock’s face and chest, wetting and darkening the sparse hair there. Delicious, he way he looks with his pants halfway down his thighs, holding himself in position for the harsh cropping. 

Rosaline is being relatively gentle; her crop is nowhere near as nasty as the paddle, but somehow, Sherlock’s erection is flagging. Indra unfurls himself from the armchair and stands, and Sherlock hears him move. His face turns eagerly toward the sound of Indra’s voice. 

“Look, Rosaline,” he purrs, moving close. “What a shame. Our boy is losing interest.” He looks past Sherlock to Rosaline and nods toward the box. 

Sherlock jerks his head to the side as he hears the click of Rosaline’s heels across the stage, the shuffle of the box as Rosaline takes out several items, She holds them up for Indra, one at a time. Indra nods silently to some, and then points to another, waving for Rosaline to hand the set to him. 

The tinkle of metal as Rosaline drops the wicked little toys into Indra’s hand makes Sherlock gasp. Or is it Rosaline’s hand on his arse, smoothing over the livid red marks she’s left there? No matter. Indra and Rosaline have Sherlock’s full attention now. 

“Do you know what I have in my hands, Sherlock?” Indra squeezes the little devices so that they click like tiny castanets, inches in front of Sherlock’s face. 

“Indra,” the boy gasps. His cock is erect again, harder than ever. Indra pauses, deeply inhaling the clean male musk of Sherlock’s body. He’s really something, this boy. Indra presses the tip of one of the clamps firmly into the flesh of Sherlock’s upper chest. 

Drawing the cold metal down, Indra finds one of Sherlock’s already-tormented nipples. A squeeze, a slide of his thumb, and Indra lets his hand drop away, leaving the clamp hanging from the pink flesh. Another quick motion with the other clamp, and Sherlock’s chest is well decorated. Indra leans close as the boy lets out a keening moan.

“Beautiful, Sherlock,” he murmurs. The low sound from Sherlock’s throat grows louder as the burn of the clamps intensifies. 

Behind Sherlock, the crackle of a condom wrapper, the click of a bottle, and Sherlock bares his teeth. Likely he can smell the latex. Making a quick decision, Indra extends a hand to Rosaline. “Give me a drop,” he murmurs, and Rosaline tilts the bottle and obliges him.

As Rosaline turns her attention back to her own toys, Indra looks down at the dollop of lubricant in his hand, at the line he’s about to cross with the boy. His own cock is throbbing hard in his trousers. It’s undeniable, the lust that’s surging through his body at the very thought of touching Sherlock’s gorgeous, weeping cock. 

Indra rarely wants men. He’s never wanted one so very young. But there’s something about this Sherlock that Indra just can’t look away from. 

He certainly can’t look away now, as Rosaline insinuates her tiny, latex-gloved fingers between Sherlock’s buttocks and tickles at his opening. Sherlock lets out a sound that’s very like a grunt, and Indra sweeps his fingertips against the lubricant, spreading it across his own palm.

Slowly, slowly, Rosaline is opening the boy. His face is flaming red. He cries out helplessly when Indra touches his shaft, soft, gentle. He lays his other hand against Sherlock’s cheek.

“Breathe, Sherlock,” Indra sighs, letting the boy feel the warmth of Indra’s own breath against his lips. Sherlock’s mouth opens, trembling with want. Exquisite. 

Indra runs his fingers down Sherlock’s cock, swirling his palm against the head, moving slowly so that Sherlock doesn’t get too excited, too quickly. Indra has no desire to let this scene end yet. He wants to cover the boy in his power, smother him in pleasure, pull those delicious, pained sounds from his throat for as long as he can.

Behind Sherlock, Rosaline holds up the slender toy, now covered with a condom. Indra gives her a nod, and Rosaline lowers it. Indra knows the moment the toy breaches Sherlock’s body, just by the way the cock in his hand swells and throbs, and by the way Sherlock’s moans grow thicker. 

“Open for it, Sherlock,” Indra orders him, his voice low, but with a hard edge. “Just open, and take it.” 

Sherlock does. In just a few moments, Rosaline is slipping the toy gently in and out of that vulnerable arse, while Indra gives Sherlock’s cock slow strokes that must be simply agonizing. By now, Sherlock’s feet and arms must be aching with the strain of his position, but his body is sheened with sweat and trembling with arousal, and he has made no hint of wanting to release the bar. 

Then, from his pocket, Indra’s mobile rings. 

“Fuck,” Indra mutters as he scrambles to pull the phone from his trouser pocket, which is of course the pocket opposite his unlubricated hand. Only one person has this particular mobile number: Indra’s secretary at the firm. And though she knows nothing of Indra’s activities during his occasional daytime hours away from the firm, she does know never to call unless it is a dire emergency. 

“I have to take this,” Indra growls, hating himself for interrupting the scene. Guilt strikes at him, as much at the exasperation and recrimination on Rosaline’s face as the sudden misery on Sherlock’s. “Rosaline, please continue. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Indra forces himself to walk away, closes the stage door behind him, and raises the phone to his ear. For ten minutes he grapples with the crisis arising from the displeasure of his firm’s most important client. He ends up firing one of his managers for mishandling the account, and deputizing another to deal with the problem as she sees fit. By the time Indra rings off, he’s completely wrung out with anger and frustration, wondering how this incident could have been prevented, second-guessing himself in a thousand ways. He takes a breath, hoping to clear his head, then opens the stage door once more. 

Indra was wrong to think he couldn’t be more miserable. Before his eyes is a scene that bids fair to make him scream with rage. 

Sherlock has let go of the bar and is now sitting on the stage with arms crossed, glaring at Rosaline, who is kneeling---kneeling!---some distance away. The blindfold lies discarded beside Sherlock, alongside the clamps, the underwear, and the slender toy. Worst of all, Rosaline is weeping silently as she stares at Sherlock’s face. 

“What the fuck is going on here?” Indra asks, dangerously. 

“He doesn’t want me,” Rosaline says, dashing a hand across her face and getting to her feet. “To domme him. He said...well, he said things…”

“I won’t accept any other dom but you, Indra,” Sherlock snaps, his eyes blazing their pale blue. “If you’re not here, watching and directing it all, it doesn’t work for me. I tried to submit to her, I did. But it just made me…”

“...Angry,” Rosaline finished, with a curl of her lip. “You know, I do get it, Sherlock. You have a connection with Indra. You’re not really a sub, after all. But you didn’t have to be so rude to me.”

“Apologize to Rosaline, Sherlock,” Indra says, cold, distant. 

“Sorry you’re not the least bit interesting to me, Rosaline,” Sherlock snarls, and she lifts her chin haughtily, turns, and leaves, her high heels clacking furiously against the wood floor. 

“You little shit,” Indra says quietly, when Rosaline is gone. “You nasty little shit. I asked you before, Sherlock: what the hell is wrong with you?”

“What was I to do?” Sherlock asks, still defiant. “I couldn’t stand it one more minute, her fucking me with that thing, cooing like a schoolgirl. It was getting disgusting.”

“She was giving you her best, Sherlock. You owe her yours. I’m not blaming you for your feelings about the scene,” Indra says, running a hand through his greying hair; his other hand is sticky with drying lubricant. “I’m blaming you for not communicating them in a respectful way. That was my second rule, Sherlock! You could have said, ‘Yellow, Rosaline, this isn’t working for me, let’s take a break.’ Instead you fling insults at your domme. Lies! You found her interesting enough at the beginning of our session.”

Sherlock says nothing, but looks at the stage and twists up his mouth. 

“And if you want to continue these sessions, if you ever want to so much as step foot in this club ever again, you will apologise to Rosaline. Sincerely, and at the first opportunity. If and only if she forgives you, I’ll see you again. Not before. Now get that blindfold back on.”

Sherlock looks sharply at Indra, who glares stonily back. After a long moment, Sherlock seems to decide that obeying Indra is the better decision. Slowly, he puts the blindfold back over his eyes. 

“On your back,” Indra says, and Sherlock lowers himself to the stage, gingerly. His arse must be quite sore. Good. 

Indra’s hand is twitching for his blacksnake bullwhip. It’s hanging in the club’s office, not twenty steps away. But he must never leave his sub alone. And he must never, ever strike his sub in anger. 

Instead, he walks to Sherlock, letting his dress shoes sound against the black-painted wood. He swings one leg over the boy, standing tall over his naked body. “Don’t move, Sherlock. Don’t move an inch. Don’t you fucking dare.”

Sherlock goes rigid, and Indra opens his trousers. At the sound of his zip, a blush starts to spread below the blindfold, and Sherlock’s cock twitches to attention. 

Indra spits into his hand, wetting the sticky lubricant again, and Sherlock flinches beneath him. His head moves from side to side, just fractions of an inch, and Indra knows he’s trying to determine if he can feel spit on his body. Indra curls his lip. 

It’s not clean, he should wipe his hand, but right now Indra doesn’t care. At the first pull on his aching cock, Indra lets out a groan, not bothering to hide exactly what he is doing, letting the wet sounds be loud and lewd for Sherlock. Below him, the boy is struggling not to writhe with desire, his cock twitching against his belly. 

“You want to touch, don’t you,” Indra pants. “Hell, you probably want to taste. You’d just love for me to take you by the hair, jerk you up here and shove this cock down your throat.” 

“Please,” Sherlock whispers, and Indra feels fire kindle in his belly to hear Sherlock beg like that, beg for Indra himself, laying bare his submissive desires with that single word.

Indra's strokes grow longer, rougher, as he pours all his frustration, all his shame, all his rage into this rising tide of white-hot lust, of this drive to dominate and humiliate Sherlock, this ridiculous, ignorant, pig-headed, beautiful, impossible fucking Sherlock. 

“Well, you’ll get nothing like that, you little arsehole,” Indra hisses. “You need to learn, you need to change your fucking ways, or I will give you nothing. Nothing. Nothing.”

The boy moans, desperate and desolate, and Indra comes, milking his cock brutally hard, letting the hot gouts of his semen land on the boy’s chest and belly. Sherlock jerks in shock, then sags against the black-painted wood. 

Indra stands over Sherlock a few moments more, breathing, letting his heartbeat lower to something resembling normal. He tucks his cock back into his trousers, then reaches down to tug Sherlock’s blindfold away. 

“Clean all this up,” he says coldly, not looking at Sherlock’s face. “Put everything in the box and take it with you. I’m not sure I’ll have further need of it. And don’t touch that cock. I hope you realise you don’t deserve to come, Sherlock.”

He steps away, leaving the boy naked and alone under the lights of the stage. He opens the door, then stands for a moment, not turning. 

“I care about you, Sherlock. I believe you have the potential to be something special. But I meant everything I said. You need to learn respect. So don’t come back here until you’re ready to give it. Rosaline wasn’t the only person you insulted today, Sherlock. With your behavior, you insulted me.”

And with that, Indra leaves the room and closes the door behind him. 

&&&&&

The next day, Indra receives a brief email from Sherlock, asking him what Rosaline’s favorite flower is. A few hours later, seven dozen lavender roses arrive at the club, beautifully arranged in crystal vases. At the same time, a messenger appears, bearing a heartfelt, handwritten letter in which Sherlock begs Rosaline’s forgiveness and rather awkwardly praises her beauty, creativity, skill in cropping, and taste in footwear. 

Rosaline laughs loud and long over the letter, orders her favourite sub to tear off all the rose petals so she can sleep on a bed of them, and declares to Indra that Sherlock is---mostly---forgiven. 

Still, Indra lets one more day pass before informing Sherlock. The agony of waiting will be good for him. 

But when he next sees the boy, shuffling in through the club’s side door with his blue eyes full of fear, Indra enfolds him in his arms. Sherlock hugs him back, hungrily. 

“I’m so sorry I was called away, Sherlock. Sorry I left you in that position, sorry I reacted in anger the way I did. And I’m glad you’re back,” he says, feeling a pressure release in his chest. 

Sherlock’s chin is quivering with emotion. Indra takes that chin gently in his hand, tilts his lovely, weeping face upward, and presses his mouth softly against Sherlock’s.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Tumblr's galtori and eyyopatrick for kind help and reality check on this chapter!

On the fourth day, just after their gentle kiss in the hallway, Indra takes Sherlock into the club’s office and makes him sit on the threadbare velvet sofa once more. Then he pulls up a chair and just talks to the young man for a good while. He asks Sherlock how he’s doing, asks him about his life, where he grew up, what his other interests are. Best to re-establish a rapport, if at all possible.

The boy’s answers are halting, as if he’s not used to being asked such questions and, perhaps, doesn’t think he has good answers for some of them. Boarding school, naturally. Violin, yes, and the expected top university. He read chemistry there, but hasn’t done much since he’d finished uni two years ago (barely graduating, Indra guesses by the way Sherlock’s eyes slide to the side when he talks about it). 

Rehab, yes. Sherlock brings it up very suddenly, speaks about the experience in a flat tone of voice. Indra looks again at the marks on Sherlock’s skin, which he’d barely noticed before. Well-healed track marks, hyperpigmentation not quite gone. Marks of his pain, no matter what Sherlock claims about “experiments.” Indra sighs, thinking of the way he’d touched himself yesterday after coming in contact with Sherlock’s fluids. Indra isn’t proud of what he did, but nonetheless, the need to have Sherlock tested for infection has just become more urgent. 

“Sherlock,” Indra says, deciding to be direct. “The other day I made a rather poor decision. I’m sorry, but now I need you to---”

“---To be tested, yes, I know. I took care of it yesterday morning, after what happened. Results in tomorrow. But Indra, I never shared needles.” He looks away from Indra’s face. 

“Thank you for that, Sherlock,” Indra says slowly. “For taking note that the contact occurred, and for taking action on my behalf, though you yourself were not at risk. I’m somewhat impressed.” 

Sherlock doesn’t answer, just looks at the floor. 

“And after what you did yesterday, you’ve certainly done all you could to regain my good graces,” Indra says. “I take it you wish to continue our association, then?” 

“Do you want to continue it?” Sherlock looks up, his young face slack with misery. “I’m not a good person, Indra. I’m not. What you said before, about hurting people. I’ve...I’ve already hurt someone. Lastingly.” 

Indra feels cold form in the pit of his belly. “Do you want to tell me about it?” Indra asks, almost hoping Sherlock will refuse.

“No.” Sherlock jumps up, begins to pace. Finally, he goes to the room’s little window and looks out, though there’s nothing to see but the rubbish bins in the alley beyond. 

“Sherlock, I’m not interested in judging your past,” Indra says at last, when it becomes clear Sherlock will say no more. “It’s your future I’m choosing to concern myself with, god help me. I know you can learn to do better. So what do you say, Sherlock?” Indra asks, standing and holding out his hand. “Try again? I’m far from a perfect teacher. As you’ve seen. I make bad decisions when I’m angry, just like everyone. But I will give you my best, Sherlock, if you still care to learn.”

Again, that sidelong look from Sherlock, as if he’s being measured. Then Sherlock turns to face Indra, hands in his pockets, and speaks quickly. 

“You’re divorced, no children. Born in London; parents from eastern India or possibly Bangladesh. Mother recently deceased; father some sort of scholar, no longer lives in London. You’ve purchased a flat right in Canary Wharf, but the concierge of your building has just left and you’re unsure whether the new person is working out. You use a car service to get to and from this club, except when you direct the driver to drop you at a salon two streets from here so you can get a haircut. You favour Savile Row, but your current tailor is overcharging you and delivering a shoddier product, racism probably. You came into some money recently, likely an inheritance, but it’s already spent.”

Indra blinks. 

“India, yes, outside Kolkata,” he answers finally. “I grew up near Brick Lane, so I have a slight Bengali accent; usually it’s barely perceptible. But my father was a research scientist, not a scholar as such. You are correct about my mother.” Indra pauses, and Sherlock has the grace, barely, to look away.

“Canary Wharf, yes, but I’m not sure why you think my building’s concierge is new. She’s not,” Indra continues, ignoring Sherlock’s huff of annoyance at this. “The haircuts, correct. My receipt from the salon is right here on the desk, after all. 

“As for that tailor,” Indra says, narrowing his eyes, “I formed a suspicion when I went to be measured and fitted, but I fired him when I saw the finished suits. I secured a full refund, then spread the word about how he’d cut corners, believing I wouldn’t know the difference. When I pay for hand-stitching on my surgeon’s cuffs, I expect to receive it.” Indra extends his cuff to Sherlock, who glances down and wrinkles his nose. 

“Oh, I kept the suits,” Indra continues wryly, “but I never wear them to work in the City. Only here at the club, where it’s mostly dark and most people won’t recognize their defects. And I don’t much care if I get bodily fluids on them. In fact, it gives me a certain satisfaction to do so.” Indra smiles.

“As for my marital status as well as the inheritance money,” Indra continues, “that’s my own business, and I won’t discuss it. But I would like to know how you observed, or nearly observed, so much about me.”

“I’m trying to learn how to read people,” Sherlock mumbles, clearly nettled by his failures rather than encouraged by his partial success. “I usually do far better than that. But then I haven’t yet met many people who work in the City...”

“Why learn that?” Indra asks, frowning. “Other than to satisfy idle curiosity?”

“I’ve always been good at it. Hobby of mine.” Sherlock’s gaze is guarded. 

“Made you many friends?” Indra asks, leaning against the desk and folding his arms. 

“More enemies, actually.” Sherlock looks down. 

“Oh, Sherlock,” Indra says, running his fingers through his hair. The young man is making him greyer by the second. “And how do you use these skills on your subs?”

Sherlock’s mouth tightens. “The usual way. I can tell whether someone’s at uni, what they study, whether they’re in another relationship, how long it’s been since---”

Indra cuts in, impatiently. “What about whether they like what you’re doing to them?”

“They always do,” Sherlock answers. “Until suddenly they don’t, sometimes. So annoying.”

“But why do you push people? Why do you keep pushing boundaries without establishing trust first? And why did you say those things to Rosaline?” 

“Because I’m angry, Indra!” Sherlock pulls his hands out of his pockets, leans forward just a little. His hands twitch. “I’m angry at everyone, all the time. People are always so fucking disappointing. They’re weak, they’re stupid, they’re illogical, but still, they can’t handle the slightest hint that they’re less than perfect. They hate me for it, Indra. Everyone hates me. Why shouldn’t I hate them back?” Sherlock turns back to the window again, places a fist carefully against the glass. 

“Do you think they’re intrinsically weak, stupid, and illogical?” Indra asks quietly. 

“Of course they are,” Sherlock snaps, shoving away from the wall. 

“If that’s true, and I’m not saying it is, then how can they help the way they are? Do they deserve scorn, or compassion?”

Sherlock stops pacing and looks at Indra as if he’s never seen him before. Indra continues.

“You’re clearly very intelligent, Sherlock. But you’re not very wise or kind, are you.”

“Says the owner of the club where people go to get beaten up,” Sherlock retorts, but his voice is fainter now.

“A dom is at his heart a caretaker, Sherlock. And unless you walk out the door right now, I’m going to train you to take care of your subs. So, Sherlock, are you leaving?” Indra waits, still leaning against the desk. The moment stretches, and Indra quirks up a corner of his mouth. “I didn’t think so. Come back tomorrow night.”

&&&&

On the fifth day, Sherlock returns to the club just as it’s opening for the evening. “You’re on the door for an hour,” Indra tells him, ignoring Sherlock’s huff of distaste. “You’ll be checking ID. Admit absolutely no one under twenty-one. If you find someone younger, if the ID looks fake, or if someone appears intoxicated, I want you to turn the person away. Politely, Sherlock.”

“That’s my challenge?” Sherlock says, incredulous. “To be polite for an hour?”

“Yes, Sherlock. It is.” Indra gives him the wrist stamp and leaves him to it. 

Later, he hears from the bouncer that Sherlock was rather cold with everyone, but that he insulted only one person, a dom who brought an underage girl with a fake ID. Indra smiles to hear how Sherlock had ripped the man apart, lashing scorn on everything from the man’s shoes to the pathetic way he victimised someone too young to consent. And after the man stormed off, Sherlock called the girl a cab, passed her a twenty, and told her to come back in four years. 

After the regular door person takes over, Indra finds Sherlock nervously sucking down a cigarette in the alley. He claps Sherlock on the shoulder, making him jump. 

“Well done, especially with that predator,” Indra says, and Sherlock blinks in surprise. Indra grins proudly. “Now, come back inside.” 

Moments later, Sherlock is standing beside Indra on the club floor, helping to supervise. He’s amazingly focused, observing several problems that Indra misses, and he watches while Rosaline or Indra intervenes. 

“I need a cigarette,” Sherlock mutters to Indra after an hour of this. Indra sighs; the young man is clearly wound up tight with nervous energy, likely from the strain of staying civil. And as for the cigarettes themselves...well, that’s one issue of Sherlock’s Indra is unwilling to take on. 

“Go ahead,” Indra says. “Then check in with me, and you can go home.” Sherlock is gone as soon as Indra finishes speaking. Indra shrugs, and turns back to the crowd. 

Five minutes later, Indra steps into the office for a moment. As he’s rummaging in a drawer for the piece of kit he needs to demonstrate a technique, he hears Sherlock’s voice drifting in from the window. Indra leans over to glance out. 

Sherlock is leaning against the wall, smoking, and right next to him is a very pretty, very young woman, probably that underage girl. 

His heart beating faster, Indra leaves the drawer open and walks silently to take up a position by the window. 

The girl seems to be pleading with Sherlock. “Please. I can’t go home.”

“Why not?” Sherlock asks, taking a long drag off his cigarette.

Even as Indra watches, the lovely girl reaches over to put a hand on Sherlock’s chest. Indra holds his breath. 

Sherlock reaches to grasp her wrist---gently. He pulls her hand from his body and steps away from her. 

“Don’t,” Indra hears him say sternly. “You’re too young. I won’t let you touch me in that way, Anna.”

“You’re so fit, and not much older than I am. And you were so kind to me, earlier. Take me to your flat tonight,” Anna begs. “Please. I’ll make it up to you...sir. The cab fare...”

“My name is Sherlock, not ‘sir.’ And you don’t owe me anything, especially not...that. And I certainly won’t take you to mine.” Sherlock throws down his cigarette and grinds it under his heel, then glances up. Her lip is trembling. “Anna...do you...live with that man?”

“Yeah,” she mumbles. “Got no place else to go, now. Gram’s gone, and Mum’s always off her face. Never had a dad…” She shrinks into herself, leans back against the wall. “Oh, what am I going to do now…?”

“Christ,” Sherlock mutters, running his hand over his hair. “Anna, we’re going to the police station, and I’m going to help you sort this out. But I won’t ever take advantage of you, Anna. That’s a promise.” As Anna cries, Sherlock grips her hand tightly. He pulls out his phone and dials. “Hello, police? I’ve just met a sexually exploited child, living with her abuser…”

Indra sits down in the desk chair and stays still for a long time. Even after the police have come and gone, and the blue lights have stopped flashing against the ceiling of the little room, Indra sits, his head full of strange, dark thoughts. He barely notes the pounding beat of the club music drifting in from the hall. 

Then his phone chimes. He looks down---it’s a text from Sherlock. 

_Sorry I didn’t return. Needed to work something out for a friend. SH_

&&&&&

 

On the sixth day, Indra faces Sherlock on the brightly lit stage, the whisper of three people’s breath the only sound in the deserted club. 

Today Indra has invited a third person; Selene is kneeling at Indra’s feet. She’s ten years older than Sherlock but still somewhat younger than Indra, plump, round-faced and pretty, and her smiling blue eyes are greedily taking in Sherlock’s naked form.

Indra is pleased with Sherlock. In the week since he witnessed Sherlock quietly taking care of the underage girl, Indra has allowed Sherlock to return to his club at nights, on condition that he’s forbidden to participate in a scene. And Sherlock has followed Indra to the letter. 

A few people did greet him when he arrived, but Sherlock just shook hands unsmilingly. Indra would have allowed him to watch others play, but instead he’d wandered out onto the dance floor and let himself go, dancing himself into a near-trance, losing himself in the pounding beat for hour after exhausting hour. A gorgeous sight, and Indra doesn’t blame the handful of others who also stop to see Sherlock gyrate, watching those curls turn black with sweat and those wiry muscles moving under his tight shirt. 

For himself, Indra usually prefers women. But Sherlock has a certain something that’s undeniably compelling. And of course he knows it; Indra suspects now that Sherlock was showing off for him. Today, here on the stage, the thought makes him smile into Sherlock’s eyes.

Yes. If Sherlock continues to do well, perhaps Indra will see his way to giving him what he not-so-secretly craves.

“This is Selene,” Indra says, and Sherlock nods at her. “Selene, this is Sigerson.”

“Pleasure,” the young man says. “I hope so,” Selene replies in her cheeky way.

Sherlock looks at Indra, his eyes full of questions, and Indra runs an affectionate hand over Selene’s curtain of sleek brown hair. 

“I believe I mentioned in my email that a trusted submissive of mine would be joining us today. Sigerson, you said before that any sex with women other than oral is a hard limit---in fact, it was the only hard limit you gave me. But I’ve noticed you have great interest in playing with them. In fact, you home in on the sweet ones...with very long hair.”

“Well, well. You’re very observant, Indra,” Sherlock says, shivering a little despite the warm air. 

“Yes, I am. What do you say, Selene? Can you take two doms at once?” He hears Sherlock’s breath catch.

“You know I long to, sir.” Selene beams, but lowers her eyes, demure. She’s so lovely, so dignified, her hands folded gracefully on her plump thighs, her breasts with their tender pink nipples proudly on display.

“That’s my girl.” Indra gives her a warm smile. “What do you say, Sigerson? Would you like a taste of my Selene? You can enjoy her along with me if you agree to follow my directions to the letter.”

Sherlock frowns a little. He’s realising that he’ll be submissive to Indra in this scene, even as he’s performing the actions of a dom. “Yes, Indra,” he says, blinking, clearly trying to process the strange new role. 

“Good. We’ll use the usual safewords,” Indra says. “First of all, I’d like you to give Selene a kiss. Greet her properly.”

Sherlock steps forward and reaches out to touch Selene’s cheek. Bending over her lifted face, Sherlock presses a lingering kiss to her mouth. He pulls just barely back, waits until she opens her eyes, then says against her lips, “Thank you for being here today, Selene.”

She sighs and lowers her lashes. Indra’s smile broadens. “That was beautifully done. Now, sweet girl, what would you like from our Sigerson today?”

“Oh, everything, sir. This pretty baby...I want his heart and soul,” Selene laughs, and Sherlock smiles shyly. “But if I can’t have those, I’d just like for him to kiss me again...while you do as you like to me, sir.” She bites her lip as she looks fetchingly up at her master.

“Hmm. Adorable, my girl. But you’ve already told me your other limits for today, so don’t think you’ll escape so easily. Now, you know how I like to start you off,” Indra says, and Selene drops to her hands and crawls to one of the two boxes that stand ready. She takes out a long coil of rope and kneels to offer it to Indra.

“Move your hair for me, my little pet,” Indra says, and Selene pulls her long hair over one shoulder and leans forward with a dreamy little smile, already falling into sub-space. Indra runs the rope through his hands, making sure that nothing that could hurt her skin has snagged on the fibers. “Watch me, Sigerson,” he says.

Working quickly, Indra places Selene in the same chest harness he used on Sherlock that first day, moving her arms behind her back and looping the rope around her forearms. He passes the rope over her shoulders and around her chest, above and below her breasts, with the two long free ends finally coming together at her breastbone. Then he places a row of overhand knots in the ends of the double rope, passing it down her belly, between her legs, and up again between her buttocks. Slyly, Indra positions a hard little knot over her clit as well as another against her anus. 

Selene whimpers, and Indra sees Sherlock wince in sympathy. Good. Standing behind Selene, Indra gives the rope a tug, making her moan, before tying off that rope behind her back. 

“Would you like to learn to lay rope like this, Sherlock?” Indra asks, seeing those pale eyes so avidly following the lines that cradle Selene’s flesh.

“Yes. Very much,” Sherlock breathes. “It’s beautiful...and inescapable.” As he well knows.

“I’ll teach you, then. But don’t dare try it before you learn exactly how. Bondage is really one of the more dangerous things we do, after all.”

“That, I knew,” Sherlock replies absently, drawing close and running his fingers over the small of Selene’s back, touching the crotch rope as if he, too, would like to tug. 

“Go ahead,” Indra says in his ear. And Sherlock runs his fingers under the rope and slowly, slowly pulls it tighter, until his lips part to hear Selene’s soft moan. Sherlock sways slightly, and Indra knows he’s remembering how it felt for him.

Indra takes a step back from Sherlock and Selene. “Watch her,” he says. “Stay right beside her, let her lean on you so she doesn’t fall. I’ll be right back.” 

Sherlock moves to stand closer to Selene, looking down almost wonderingly at the intricately bound woman. Sherlock gives a long exhale when Selene leans against his legs, placing her cheek trustingly against his thigh. His big hand drops to pet her hair. Ah, beautiful sight.

High overhead, the great frame of reinforced steel still arches over the stage. A long rope is already attached there by one end, its length draping over to the wall where a hitch holds the other end. Indra walks over and unhitches the rope. Looking up, he pulls hard to check that the bowline knot he placed earlier is still secure. 

Bringing the rope over to Selene, Indra tells Sherlock, “Help her to stand.” And Sherlock carefully guides Selene to her feet, his fingers lingering on the ropes. 

Indra ties the overhead rope to the array at Selene’s back, leaving some slack and making sure not to catch the crotch rope in directly. If she stumbles, most of her weight will be borne by her shoulders and chest. But Sherlock won’t let that happen, Indra sees. He’s taking his task seriously. Oh, this lovely young man. Learning so quickly.

“Now, Sigerson. Fulfill Selene’s request,” Indra says, secretly pulling a blindfold out of the box. And Sherlock steps around Selene, always steadying her. He touches her chin and tilts her face upward for a slow, lingering kiss. At that moment, Indra drops the blindfold around Selene’s face. She gasps against Sherlock’s mouth. 

“Now, Selene,” Indra says, louder than necessary, “the flogger. Sigerson, I’ll give you a taste first so you know how it feels for her.” Indra reaches into Sherlock’s box and takes out the new flogger with its many leather tails. Sherlock has tested negative for everything, but Indra operates by his own rules. This instrument has the potential to draw blood, and so the handle bears Sherlock’s name. Indra stands behind him, eyes the distance, and lands a single stroke on the right side of his upper back, catching his skin with the wicked little tips. 

Sherlock moans, lifting his chin away from Selene for a moment, and Indra’s heart swells for him. He well knows the starry, sparkling pain this particular toy provides, and it’s a joy to watch Sherlock feel it, likely for the first time. He touches that beautiful hollow of Sherlock’s cheek, then picks up Selene’s identical flogger and gives Selene her first blow. 

After a few minutes of steady attention with the flogger, Selene is quivering and whimpering against Sherlock’s kiss-swollen mouth. “Hush now, Selene,” Sherlock purrs lowly, her face between his fine-boned hands. “You’re doing so well. Being so brave. Sweet girl.” 

Indra sees that Sherlock has opened his eyes as he continues to kiss Selene. She can see nothing behind the blindfold, but Sherlock’s gaze keeps straying to Indra. Interesting. He puts down Selene’s flogger and pulls out the next, nastier tool.

“Sigerson, I think I’d like you to give Selene her paddling,” Indra says, handing Sherlock the wicked implement. “I’ll steady her.” 

Sherlock stands for a moment with the paddle in his hand, looking at it almost in disbelief. Then he glances up with a red glint in his eye. “Thank you, Indra.” He leans in to give Selene a final, hard kiss. When he pulls away, she’s smiling. 

Indra takes Sherlock’s position, cradles her face against his neck. His long brown fingers caress the rope that binds his precious sub, checking the tightness.

With a practiced hand, Sherlock lands the first blow on her plump arse. It’s a soft blow, almost gentle, and Indra knows he’s remembering his own ordeal. Perfect, it’s so perfect, but… “Harder,” Indra tells him. Sherlock’s eye flashes blue at him, and he obeys. 

Soon, under Indra’s orders, Sherlock is panting with exertion, walloping Selene as hard as he’d ever hit Toby, far harder than Sherlock himself could take. He keeps glancing at Indra over Selene’s shoulder, the pain-lust on his face now shadowed with worry for Selene. Indra can feel her tears wetting the collar of his dress shirt, but her breathing is steady, and he knows she can continue if he requires it. But tonight Indra will be merciful, for Sherlock’s sake if not for hers.

“That’s enough,” he says, and Sherlock sags with relief. Setting the paddle down carefully, he stands upright, unsure of what to do with himself. Indra catches his eye and whispers softly in Selene’s ear, out of Sherlock’s hearing. Selene smiles damply, and nods her assent. 

Stepping to Selene’s side, Indra presses her shoulders down so that she bends at the waist, until the the rope connecting her back to the steel frame overhead grows taut. He presses a tiny bell into Selene’s hand, for her to drop if she needs to. “Now, Sigerson, Selene would like to thank you for the pain of her paddling. With her mouth. If that’s appealing.”

It clearly is. Sherlock has been hard since he set the first kiss to Selene’s sweet lips, and despite his worry, he’s grown even more aroused throughout Selene’s paddling. The sheen of sweat on his body mesmerises Indra as Sherlock steps around and runs a reverent hand over the long, sleek fall of Selene’s hair. His straining cock brushes her cheek, and Selene lets out a little mew of wanting, turning her face to seek him. As Indra watches, Selene catches Sherlock’s cock hungrily into her mouth. 

“Oh...oh, Selene,” Sherlock breathes as Selene pulls him in, generously lavishing her mouth on his cock. “You are magnificent.” He runs his fingers through her hair, panting, luxuriating in Selene’s skilful tongue and her urgent devotion.

“Yes, she is magnificent,” Indra agrees, stepping behind her, placing his hands possessively on her plush arse. “Incomparable. Hold her shoulders steady for a moment, Sherlock…” Pulling a single-bladed knife out of his pocket, Indra unsnaps the sheath with his thumb.

Sherlock’s eyes flicker when he sees the knife, and confusion, disbelief, and dark lust blend in his questioning glance. Indra crooks his mouth, then scrapes the sharp side of the blade carefully down Selene’s back. 

The girl starts sobbing and shivering, but the hand that holds the bell never moves. Selene always adores the danger of knife play, the cold of the steel against her flesh. And Indra savours her sweet fear, intertwined with her absolute trust that he won’t harm her. Such a good girl, brave girl. He feels his cock throbbing in his trousers. 

Oh, he can’t wait. The sight of Selene’s mouth moving on Sherlock’s shaft, the boy groaning out his pleasure, her round arse lifted toward Indra so beseechingly...Time to reward her, and himself. 

Drawing the knife to the small of Selene’s back, Indra angles the blade upward and carefully cuts through the rope. He quickly puts the knife away. Selene’s moans around Sherlock’s cock grow rise in tone, desperate, as Indra gently, tenderly peels the knotted rope away from her wet little pussy. 

Sherlock watches, licking his lips, as Indra opens his trousers and takes out his aching cock. He quickly covers it with a condom. Then, in one motion, Indra sheaths himself smoothly inside his darling Selene, savouring her squeal as he fills her tightly. A groan escapes Indra’s throat, the first sound of pure desire Sherlock has heard from him. “Oh, god,” Sherlock says under his breath as Indra rolls his hips against Selene’s soft, bright-pink arse, holding her waist and letting his head drop back in bliss. 

Indra reaches down to tickle Selene’s little clit. She lets out a low, despairing moan. Sherlock looks down at her, grimacing as if in pain to see the bound woman taking his steely cock so eagerly into her delicious mouth. Then he looks up at Indra, panting harder than ever, a desperate light in his eye. 

“Take him, make him come, Selene,” Indra orders in the sharp, harsh tone Selene adores, his fingertips swirling against her pussy. “Swallow him, swallow every drop.” Selene makes a keening cry in her throat; she’s climaxing. Indra luxuriates in the pulse of her pussy around his straining cock. Merciless, he fucks her even harder, holding Sherlock’s wide eyes with his own calm, dark ones. 

In the next moment, Sherlock’s brow furrows and his mouth drops helplessly open. “God, Selene, Selene,” Sherlock says in a broken voice, fisting his hands in her hair. And then he spends himself deep in her throat, groaning out his ecstasy. He never looks away from Indra’s face. And that, more than anything, is what finally brings Indra over the edge. 

Later, when the three of them are lying cuddled together backstage on a shabby old sofa, Indra looks across Selene’s limp, sleeping form to find Sherlock watching him hungrily. 

“Yes, Sherlock,” Indra says to those beautiful, pale eyes. “Yes.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to the supremely talented and endlessly patient Liathwen!

Indra settles himself comfortably on one of the sofas, facing the foyer. He twirls his glass idly, watching the way the rather fine whisky catches the dim lights of the high ceiling, kindling sparks deep in the glass. He turns his head to look out the wide window at the view of Canary Wharf spread out far below, its lights twinkling against the night sky, and slowly lets out a breath.

A fire in his blood, a chill of uncertainty, the thrill of the unknown. Always like this, the first time with a new person. Not just a session in the club, but a real evening, time and space to explore, to discover, to push into new territory and take a shy, hungry sub to places they’d only dreamed of.

And with Sherlock, something different still. A man, for one. It has been years since Indra has been with a man. And someone who was very naturally a dom, but who, evidently, now craved to submit to him. Only to him.

A side of Sherlock that only Indra will see. How breathtakingly intimate.

He hears the faint chime of the lift stopping on this, the highest floor. The doors sliding open. The sound of hard heels on the marble floor. The steps pause just before his door, and Indra lowers his chin fractionally. What will Sherlock do with this tiny test? The door is clearly unlocked; will he just push in? 

Then Indra hears the faint, humble knock. He smiles, and waits a long moment before calling, “Come.”

The door opens, and there is his Sherlock, the entry's overhead light catching into his dark halo of curls but leaving his face in shadow. “Indra.” Sherlock's voice is tight.

“Come in,” Indra says from his seat. “Let me look at you. Turn 'round. Well, well, well.”

Sherlock lifts his hands and turns slowly. Gone are his usual leather jacket, jeans, and trainers. Sherlock wears a dark suit, clearly made by Indra's own tailor, and similar to the style he himself favors. The fine fabric skims over Sherlock's upright figure, showing both his slimness and his strength to great advantage.

“This is the finest compliment you've yet paid me, Sherlock,” Indra says, lifting his glass. “I'm happy to have interested you in the pleasures of Savile Row. But lose the tie,” he says, “and open your top buttons. I like your throat.”

Sherlock does so hastily. He stands facing Indra, holding the tie a bit awkwardly, his uncertainty plain to see. Indra lets the moment extend.

“Beautiful, Sherlock,” he says finally. “Striking. You look older, more man than boy now.”

“It fits how I feel inside,” Sherlock ventures, using Indra's own words from that first day.

“Does it,” Indra says, not smiling. “Well, then. Take it off. Let's see how well you hold that dignity in your bare skin.”

Sherlock freezes for a moment, and Indra sips his whisky. Then those long, fine hands move to unbutton the jacket.

“There are hangers in the closet behind you,” Indra tells him. “Hang your suit neatly, Sherlock. If you intend to dress like a man, you need to act like a man. No tossing your things on the floor.”

Sherlock silently turns to obey, then sets his shoes and socks aside. Finally, he draws off his underwear and stands before Indra, tall and pale and bare, the lines of his long body bright in the dimness of Indra's flat.

“Is that the god Indra?” Sherlock asks suddenly, nodding toward the large sculpture in its niche, where the low light touches the stone curves of the gentle face, the seated posture, the slim hands.

“No,” Indra says. “It is from India, but it's a Buddhist statue. A fine reproduction of an original that now resides in the British Museum.”

“So it's the Buddha,” Sherlock says, a little impatiently.

“More accurate to say that it's _a_ buddha. It's not Gautama Buddha himself, but a bodhisattva. A being motivated by great compassion to help free all other beings from pain and ignorance.

“Did you know that his hands are speaking to the viewer?” Indra asks. Sherlock says nothing, and Indra continues. “These hand gestures...they're called mudras. The open left hand, facing up, shows that the bodhisattva is offering sincere benevolence. And the right hand, the lifted palm held outward...it says 'do not fear.'”

“I'd think it was saying, 'stay away,'” Sherlock mutters.

“Come here, Sherlock,” Indra says. “Sit at my feet. Let's talk.”

Sherlock turns away from the statue and steals forward, the long muscles of his legs catching the light beautifully. Silently he kneels on the rug before the sofa. Indra threads a long brown hand into Sherlock's curls and gently pushes his head down until Sherlock’s cheek lies against Indra's thigh. He bends to kiss the boy.

“Welcome to my home,” Indra says against Sherlock's mouth, and sits back.

“Indra,” Sherlock sighs, his eyes slipping closed. He visibly relaxes. “Thank you for...doing this. For me.”

“Doing what, exactly?”

“Undertaking to teach me. Giving me insight into what a sub feels. Making me face up to my shit attitude,” Sherlock says, his eyes still closed.

“I'll be honest with you, Sherlock. You did better than I expected, even with all the problems we had. I honestly believed you were on track to hurt people, and that my efforts were triage. But I've been pleasantly surprised.”

“No. I told you, Indra. I've already hurt people. One in particular. Lifelong consequences.” Sherlock squeezes his eyes harder, lowers his chin.

“What happened, Sherlock?” Indra lets his voice be stern. “Tell me.” And Sherlock hesitates for a long moment, then begins.

“It was at university,” Sherlock says in a near-whisper. “My final year. I had four or five people, fellow students mostly, that I enjoyed. I was not kind to them. But they kept coming back.”

Because you're commanding, and exciting, and beautiful, Indra thinks. And they were so young, and knew no better than to fall in love with you. But he says, “Go on.”

“There was one woman. I met her in the chamber choir. Oh, Indra, she was singular. Delicious. Lovely and pliant. She enjoyed pain and...humiliation. And I was all too happy to provide.

“For days I'd keep her in my little student flat. I made her crawl everywhere, sit at my feet while I revised, provide my release even when I was playing with my other pets. She felt...oh, god, Indra. She felt so good. Lush and tight. I told her we would no longer use condoms.”

Indra sighed. “I think I know where this is going. But do continue.”

“The birth control failed. She fell pregnant. Her doctor was appalled to see the marks on her skin, the bruises and weals. He wanted to turn me in to the police, but Michaela refused to press charges.”

“You were lucky, Sherlock,” Indra says. “People like us walk a fine line with the law.”

“I deserved to be arrested, Indra,” Sherlock says, his voice choked. 

“It was consensual?” Indra frowns.

“Well, yes. But still, it was wrong. We did not negotiate, or set limits. I told her how things were going to be. I didn't know what a safeword was, had never heard of it. Nor aftercare. By the end she was spending much of the time crying. And I didn't care, Indra. I reasoned that if she didn't secretly enjoy it, she could always dress and leave. Then she fell pregnant, and she did leave. And got a restraining order.”

“What about her studies?” Indra asks quietly.

“She'd lost half a year of university while she was with me. Nearly sent down. And then the baby arrived and made everything that much harder for her. She managed to graduate, but it was a near thing, and delayed.”

“Well, Sherlock. You’re right when you say you did a horrible thing. Where is she now?” Indra asked.

“America,” Sherlock said, his eyes hollow. “Studying to be a solicitor. She has family there who help with the boy. So I hear.”

“You haven't spoken to her since?”

“If I try to make any sort of contact, she reacts...poorly. Understandable. She wants nothing from me, won't even accept money. So I leave her alone.”

“How old is your son?”

“He's not my son, not in any real way. And he's two years old. Just had a birthday last week.”

Indra's trouser leg has grown wet under Sherlock's face. Indra pets Sherlock's dark curls and gives a great sigh.

“Clearly you know how wrong it was, the way you treated her,” he says heavily. “And you'll have to live with that for the rest of your life. But still, Sherlock, you are far more than the worst mistake you ever made.”

“I'm not a good person, Indra. I never will be. What I did was unforgivable. I've damned myself. If there were a hell I'd belong there.”

“No crime merits eternal punishment,” Indra tells him. “Eternity is a very long time, Sherlock, and so is your life. You need to find a way to make peace with this.”

“How?” Sherlock's voice comes out in a broken laugh.

“Whatever works for you. Commit yourself to acting morally. Work to seek out and punish injustice. Save a few people.”

“I hate people,” Sherlock mutters. “Herd animals, blind and ignorant.”

“I saw what you did for that girl, Sherlock.” Indra reaches down, lifts Sherlock's chin. “The underage girl at the club. I saw you take her in to the police. You stayed with her until she was safe, didn't you?”

“She didn't want to go. Of course she didn't. She'll end up in care.” Sherlock's voice is bitter. “Maybe her foster carer will abuse her as well. They often do, you know. Even if not, likely she'll rebel, run away. End up homeless. She's barely literate, no real family, nothing to stand on. What I did won't change much in the end.”

“So pessimistic.” Then Indra has a flash of insight. “But you left her your phone number, didn't you.” He raises his voice slightly, lets his eyes bore into Sherlock's.

After a long moment, Sherlock looks down. “Yes,” he says. “I told her she could call me if---when---she gets in trouble.”

“There is kindness in you as well as cruelty, Sherlock. If there weren't, you wouldn't mind about being a good person. You can be a good man, a loving dom.”

“Ethical? Perhaps. Loving? No.” Sherlock lifts his head and looks out over the twinkling city. “Love is just a biochemical reaction. It makes people do illogical things, dangerous things. Michaela thought she loved me.”

Indra closes his mouth tightly, cold settling deep in his gut. Time for some hard truth. Time to wrench the boy around. But not in the way he expects.

“I love you, Sherlock,” Indra says, matter-of-fact.

Sherlock stops breathing, his pale eyes locking on the city lights.

“I do. Don't be afraid, Sherlock. It doesn't mean I want to own you, or control you. Just that I care about you. That you matter to me.”

Indra touches the boy's shoulder. “And I don’t expect you to tell me you love me in return. It's an avowal, not an invoice.”

Still, Sherlock says nothing. He shifts, looks down at his hands, as if he's been handed an object he's never seen before. Watching him, Indra comes to a decision. Sherlock won’t be given a chance to argue his way out of this one.

“In fact, I don't want you to say anything more, Sherlock.” Indra sets his glass down hard on the table, making Sherlock jump. “I've given you quite enough to think about for now. But you came here for a reason, didn't you. You want to feel things you've never felt before.

“No, be quiet,” Indra says when Sherlock opens his mouth. “Unless it's to give me a safeword, or unless I specifically require you to speak, I don't want to hear a word from you. If you speak out of turn, I'll gag you. But really, Sherlock, I'd rather look at that pretty face.”

All Sherlock's bad moments have started with careless words. Indra will deny him that easy, lazy resistance. “If you agree, say, 'Yes, Indra.'”

“Yes, Indra,” the boy says quietly.

“Good,” Indra says. “Now, kiss my shoe.”

Sherlock glances up at him, surprised, affronted.

“Do you honestly believe that filthy mouth of yours is too good for that, Sherlock? Do you think I don't know where that mouth has been, and where you want it to be? Do it now.” And Sherlock presses his lips together, then bends his head to set his mouth against the fine leather of Indra's dress shoe.

“Hold that position, Sherlock. I said,” Indra growls, pushing Sherlock's head down again with a fist in his curls, “hold that position. Now then.”

Indra sits a moment longer, long enough for Sherlock to start wondering how long he'll be required to keep his lips pressed to the leather. Then Indra slides his foot to the side, and gets up to walk around Sherlock's crouching form. As he moves, he unbuttons his cuffs, rolls up his sleeves, making sure the boy sees it.

“You're beautiful, Sherlock. And well you know it.” Indra sets his hand on Sherlock's lily-white arse, enjoying the way his body tenses, the way his mouth trembles as if he longs to speak. “It's a problem. Things come to you too easily. People put up with incredible amounts of shit from you. It makes you arrogant. Doesn't it. Lift your arse for me, higher. Higher!”

When Sherlock's legs are half-bent, that arse no longer near the floor but close to Indra's hand, Indra draws back his arm and lands a hard spank. The boy jerks, bares his teeth, all his muscles standing out in relief. Indra spanks him again, and then again.

Sherlock wobbles and strains in the awkward position, splays his hands to keep from falling over. Indra would catch him, of course, but at this moment Sherlock doesn't need to remember that he trusts his dom. Indra wallops him hard, watching Sherlock's reaction, stopping only when the boy's legs begin to tremble.

“Stand up. On your feet. Oh, what a pretty pink arse I’ve given you,” Indra purrs into Sherlock's ear as the boy staggers up. Indra steadies him from behind even as he presses himself against that sore arse, letting Sherlock feel his erection through his trousers.

“I fuck a great many beautiful people, Sherlock. You should see some of the women who walk in that door, just begging for me to hold them down and make them cry. So I'm not as, shall we say, star-struck as most of the people you deal with.

“That being the case,” Indra says, “I think we need to bring you down a notch or two. But don't worry, Sherlock. I'll be gentle with you. You soft thing.”

Sherlock actually blushes, as pink as his arse. His skin is so delightfully reactive, like a whole separate toy for Indra, blooming beautifully in response to stimulus, both physical and emotional. Indra scrapes a nail down Sherlock's back, admiring the pink trail that rises there.

“So, first things first,” Indra says, seating himself on the sofa once more and looking up at Sherlock's face, so very focused on his own. “I'd like to finish my evening whisky, and you, my young friend, need to clear the pipes.” Sherlock blinks, and Indra smiles at him over the rim of his glass.

“I was your age once, Sherlock. I well remember how very eager I was. And I'd like this evening to be a little more...shall we say...drawn out than some of my early experiences. So, go on. I'll wait. And watch.” Indra takes a slow sip.

Sherlock's brow furrows, and Indra can see him thinking, even as his hands obediently rise to his chest, smoothing down over that slender torso and creeping down the line of dark hair below his navel. He’s imagining what he will look like to Indra, wondering how he should act---

“You should act to please me, Sherlock,” Indra cuts in, making Sherlock gulp and look up guiltily. “Always remember who is serving whom. Your goal now is to do what will bring me the most pleasure, not what will gratify your own ego.”

Sherlock's shoulders rise and fall. “Yellow,” he bites out.

“Tell me,” Indra commands, setting down the glass and leaning forward to listen.

“I need to know what you want me to do. To please you,” Sherlock says, his young face so anxious. “Do you want me to come as quickly as possible, so you can get on with things? Or touch myself slowly? Put on a little show? I just...please, just tell me clearly. What you want.”

“I'm in no hurry tonight, Sherlock. And if I wanted you to finish quickly, I’d stand near you, fold my arms, tap my foot. But instead I've settled in to watch you,” Indra tells him seriously. “All right?” 

“Thank you, Indra.” And Sherlock closes his eyes, begins stroking his hands over his body once more. Breathing deeply, he seems to drift down into himself. 

“Kneel, if you're going to close your eyes,” Indra says softly. “I don't want you to fall. Break my toy.”

And Sherlock slowly sinks to his knees on the small rug in front of Indra, even as his long, delicate fingers curl around his hard length. Indra narrows his eyes in enjoyment. 

It seems that Sherlock is one of those men who uses both hands, one stroking his cock and the other roaming freely over his chest, down his belly, cradling his bollocks and stroking his legs. His face is lifted to the high ceiling, his mouth parted and panting. As Sherlock grows more excited, he arches his back and gives a delicious moan. 

“Sherlock,” Indra says softly, mesmerised by the sight of the boy. “What are you thinking of?”

“A woman,” Sherlock breathes. “A sweet, soft woman. No one I know. But she has long hair...” 

“Yes,” Indra says with a knowing smile. “Tell me more.”

“She's lying on her back,” Sherlock says, his eyes moving under his lids. “I've tied her hands, spanked her rosy. Softened her up. She’s writhing. She wants me.”

Indra’s cock begins to throb. “What will you do to her? Don’t go easy, Sherlock. She can take it.”

“Oh, yes, she can. And she will.” Sherlock’s hand moves faster over his cock. “She’s spreading her thighs, wriggling and juicing herself. Look at that hungry little pussy. ‘Oh Sherlock, please oh please won’t you fuck me,’ ” Sherlock says in a high, mocking voice. “But no. She’s been a very bad thing, and she won’t get what she wants.”

Indra laughs. “Only what she deserves. Yes. Tell me what she deserves, Sherlock.”

“I tell her that if she’s very obedient, and does exactly as I say, I’ll make her feel very good. Then I slip my fingers down, start to tickle her tight arse. Push my slick fingers inside.” 

“And how does she like it, your pet?” Indra asks. 

“Her face goes red, and she starts to cry. So embarrassed. But she loves it, I can see her squirming against my fingers.”

“God, Sherlock.” Indra has to stop himself from opening his trousers. Instead he takes another sip of whisky, savours the burn in his body.

“And when she’s been readied, I sling her legs over my shoulders, but I don’t enter her. I make her beg. Beg for me to fuck her little pink bottom. She’s sobbing, moaning for it, but I wait just a moment more---“

“---watching her. Love it when they’re desperate,” Indra murmurs, watching Sherlock’s hand move faster and faster. 

“Yes. Oh, god, yes. And when I finally push my cock up her arse and feel that slick heat, I look down at her poor little pussy, and I just smile…as she cries for me to touch it. Oh…oh.” 

Sherlock’s cock flings rope after rope of hot semen beyond the small rug to the wood floor, and Indra’s eyes widen in silent admiration. Oh, to be so young again. But what Indra doesn’t miss is the hair trigger, the lack of impulse control. He’ll help Sherlock with that.

“Beautiful, Sherlock. Gorgeous puddle of come. Now lick it all up.”

Sherlock’s eyes snap open. Indra raises an eyebrow at his expression. 

“If you didn’t want the cognitive dissonance, you should have used a submissive fantasy for this practical requirement of mine. Now, lick it up, dirty boy. Unless you want a whipping, after which I’ll mop up your come with your pretty curls.” 

A quiver of his mouth, and Sherlock crawls forward. A bare moment of hesitation, and then Sherlock is wiping the flat of his tongue against the hardwood, grimacing at the taste of his own semen. Indra watches him idly, running a finger over the rim of his empty glass and turning over the next steps in his mind. 

“You remember our terms, Sherlock. About what kind of contact we’ll have. No, keep your tongue on that come, lovely boy. Keep licking.” Stern, Indra strikes the heel of his shoe against the floor and enjoys the flinch that startles through Sherlock’s crouching body. Good, he’s back in the right frame of mind. Ready for Indra to pull him deeper. 

“Finished? Go rinse that filthy mouth. Kitchen’s that way. Take this glass in while you’re at it. Good boy.” Indra watches Sherlock’s plush arse, still rosy from his spanking, as he creeps furtively into the kitchen. But when the boy returns a moment later, Indra is standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, legs spread wide and hands in his pockets, looking out over Canary Wharf. 

“Come here, Sherlock. On your knees, hands behind your back.” Indra points to the floor in front of him. Sherlock crawls forward, sparing a nervous glance out the window, no doubt wondering if anyone out there can see him: a slender, naked young man kneeling humbly before the tall older man in his business suit. Indra has had the glass coated for privacy, but Sherlock doesn’t need to know that just at the moment. 

“You’re too pretty to keep all to myself, Sherlock,” Indra purrs. “Let’s show the world what a little whore you are. Open my trousers with your mouth.”

Sherlock leans in, a little too eagerly, and teeters a bit off-balance. Indra catches him with a hard fist in his hair, and Sherlock yelps. 

“Focus, Sherlock. Open my trousers. Now.” 

Slowly, Sherlock works out how to do it, using his teeth to draw the tab free. Indra takes pity on him and releases the inner button, though someday he might enjoy watching the boy struggle with it. But then Sherlock is easing down the zip, moaning with the pain of his scalp, and Indra can think of nothing but that delicious mouth and how close it is to his cock. 

“Take me out. Oh, you can use your hands for a moment. There, Sherlock. Take a good look. Isn’t that what you’ve been wondering about?”

The boy pants, his eyes locked on Indra’s cock as it rises in front of his face, hard and proud. “God, so big,” Sherlock mutters, then remembers himself---he’s spoken out of turn. He looks up at Indra in alarm. 

Indra looks deep into Sherlock’s glazed eyes, and slowly, deliberately twists his fist in Sherlock’s hair, harder and harder still until Sherlock cries out helplessly.

“Yes, there. That’s what I want to hear from you. Just sounds. No words, or there will be punishment. Oh, I’ll give you a chance to moan about the size of my cock. Just you wait.” Sherlock whimpers, and his hips give a little twist of wanting. Indra’s heart skips a beat, and suddenly he can’t wait one more moment. 

“Open that mouth.” Indra hooks a thumb behind Sherlock’s bottom teeth. “Let me feel your tongue. Oh, good boy.” Indra sighs as Sherlock’s warm, wet mouth engulfs his cock.

Sherlock is trying hard to take Indra’s entire length. His movements are tentative, and his face is flaming red. Indra can see it even in the dim light. “Don’t tell me you haven’t sucked a man’s cock before, Sherlock?”

The boy’s blue eyes flutter closed, and he redoubles his efforts. Either he’s trying to prove his experience, or perhaps he’s just learning very, very quickly. Sherlock lavishes his mouth on Indra’s cock, pressing with his lips and swirling with his tongue, letting out a thin whine of supplication. Indra sighs. 

“What a sad little sound, Sherlock. Think I’ll stop it.” And Indra pulls Sherlock forward by the hair, stopping Sherlock’s mouth with cock, pushing firmly against the back of his throat just hard enough to cut off his air. He holds Sherlock there for a few seconds before allowing him one breath, then he shoves back inside him again. Sherlock jerks his shoulders a bit but keeps his hands obediently behind his back.

“Tap my leg if you need to stop, Sherlock darling, but I do love controlling your breath. Watching you turn even redder, if that’s possible. Right now, everything you are is mine,” he says as Sherlock gurgles. “Your mouth is mine, your hands are mine. Your cock is mine, your arse is mine. Even your breath is mine to give.” He pulls Sherlock’s head off his cock, admiring the way Sherlock gasps for air but keeps his mouth open, ready for Indra to use. 

“Touch yourself, Sherlock.” And Indra’s heart melts to see Sherlock bringing just one hand to his newly hard cock, while the other stays behind his back. And as Sherlock’s fingers curl around his heavy length, Indra praises him for the scrupulous obedience. “One hand. Yes. What a good boy you are.” Sherlock has time to smile, fleetingly, before Indra grips his hair and pushes in to fuck his throat once more.

Sherlock’s mouth is getting more talented by the second. “Look at you, Sherlock,” Indra purrs. “Giving your master such good service, right by this big window. Do you like the idea that people might be watching you give head so eagerly? Pulling on your cock like you can’t help it? They’d be jealous, Sherlock. Jealous of me, having my cock sucked so well. Jealous of you, for being allowed to take it down your throat.”

Suddenly, it’s almost too much, and Indra pulls Sherlock back. “Wicked boy,” he whispers. “Don’t think you can make me come any time you like. I’m far from finished with you.” Indra releases Sherlock’s hair, points. “Bedroom. Now.”

Sherlock chooses to crawl, though Indra hasn’t ordered him to do so. Ah, what a sweet boy, to give Indra such a gift. The sight of Sherlock’s arse tantalises Indra as he follows Sherlock into the bedroom, where the lights are low and golden. A grand four-poster bed awaits them both. 

“Up on the bed,” Indra tells him, and Sherlock obeys, his body practically vibrating with tension. Sherlock can barely look at him as Indra efficiently strips off his clothes, taking a final moment to check over the items that wait on the bedside table before joining Sherlock on the cloudy softness. 

Legs folded together, Sherlock sits almost primly atop Indra’s duvet. The rich fabric is deep scarlet, a colour Indra has favoured for years because it’s both slightly sinister in itself and utterly stunning against his own brown skin. But the effect on Sherlock’s pale body is rather ravishing as well. 

“You look like you’re blushing all over, beautiful boy,” Indra says, and grips Sherlock’s shoulders to push him sharply down onto the bed. Indra is on top of Sherlock in an instant, sliding their skins together, delighted by Sherlock’s lean, silky warmth, his half-hearted struggles. Catching Sherlock’s jaw in one hand, Indra leans in for a hard kiss. 

“What do you want, Sherlock?” Indra murmurs against Sherlock’s mouth. “Speak. Tell me what you want from me.”

Sherlock licks his lips and tries to kiss Indra again, but the hand on his jaw turns to steel. “Tell me what you want me to do to you. Or would you rather clean up and go home? Tell me, Sherlock. What do you need now?”

“Need you to fuck me,” Sherlock whispers, flushing hard. “Please fuck me, Indra.” 

“How shall I fuck you, beautiful boy? Perhaps your mouth again?” Sherlock’s face is so delightful when he’s mortified by his own desires. Long lashes downcast, lips trembling, that sweet little frown of perplexity…

“God. In my arse. Please fuck me in the arse, Indra. I’ve been wanting it for so long. Wondering how it would feel.” Sherlock’s voice is almost inaudible.

“Ah,” Indra says, closing his eyes in exultation. “I see. Well then, I will be pleased to do the honours, Sherlock. Turn onto your belly.”

Sherlock complies almost clumsily, not knowing quite what to do with his arms and head once he’s lying down. Indra grasps his wrists to guide him and feels Sherlock relaxing under his grip. 

“Would you like me to tie you, Sherlock?” Indra whispers. “Would that make it easier?”

His eyes squeezed shut, Sherlock nods quickly. Indra decides to oblige him, and reaches behind the headboard to pull a short coil of rope from its peg.

Swiftly, carefully, Indra puts Sherlock’s wrists in bondage, tying them close together with many coils and leaving plenty of slack in the line, then securing him to the headboard with a clove hitch. Finally, Indra guides Sherlock half onto his side and has him pull one leg up. “There now, beautiful boy,” he says, lying behind Sherlock and pressing his cheek to Sherlock’s nape. “Tied up safely.” 

Sherlock just breathes. Indra presses closer, sliding the hard length of his erection against the purse of Sherlock’s scrotum. Indra reaches over, lets Sherlock hear the crack of the lubricant bottle. 

Understandably enough, the boy tenses. Indra strokes his back. “We’ll go slowly, Sherlock. And I want you to let me know if you’re feeling any pain. If you understand, tell me.”

“Yes, Indra.” Sherlock’s voice is unexpectedly loud, almost impatient, and Indra recognizes the outburst for what it is: fear. A little game of trust, then. Indra curls an arm around Sherlock, pushes two fingers into his mouth. 

“If there is pain, Sherlock,” Indra says, “Bite down. Let me feel your teeth.” 

Sherlock murmurs, stroking Indra’s fingers with his tongue. His eyes slip closed once more. 

“You’ll feel my other hand now,” Indra whispers, slipping his gloved, lubricated fingers into the cleft of Sherlock’s arse. 

Sherlock grunts when Indra brushes the puckered skin of his most private opening. He sighs as Indra swirls sensuously against him, and when Indra judges it time to pry a fingertip into the furled center, easing open the muscle, Sherlock tenses and tugs at his bonds. 

Indra moves the fingers of his other hand in Sherlock’s mouth. “Remember that you should press and bite if you’re feeling any pain.” Sherlock nods, and slowly, slowly, Indra slips a finger up Sherlock’s tight little arse, caressing him from the inside. 

“Two now, Sherlock,” Indra says. This time, Sherlock does set his teeth against Indra’s fingers. For a long moment, neither man moves. Finally Sherlock relaxes his jaw, and now Indra has more room to stroke him. “You’re doing beautifully. I’m so proud of you.”

Three fingers, and now Indra can feel the firm swelling of Sherlock’s prostate. He presses gently against the gland and is gratified to feel Sherlock’s whole body shiver with pleasure. “Sensitive, are we. Mmmm.”

Indra strokes three fingers into Sherlock’s silken heat, occasionally adding more lubricant to keep everything delightfully slippery. When Sherlock is pushing back into his hand, Indra decides he’s ready. He leans to whisper in Sherlock’s ear. 

“You’re going to take my cock now, Sherlock,” he says, and Sherlock moans. “I’m going to fuck your arse until you’re drunk on it. Beautiful, beautiful boy.” 

Indra’s own eagerness has been getting harder and harder to ignore, so it’s something of a relief to sheath his cock in latex and press the head up against Sherlock’s softened pucker. “Sherlock. Do you know what I want from you now?” He pulls his fingers from Sherlock’s mouth, snaps off the glove.

“God, Indra,” Sherlock gasps. His long fingers are trembling where they’re gripping the duvet, wrists held by the ropes. “I just…Stop teasing me.”

Indra laughs. “Almost correct, Sherlock. But not quite.” He continues to swirl the tip of his cock against Sherlock’s opening. 

“Please, Indra!” The boy leans back, wanting, aching for it, and Indra’s eyes widen. So eager. “Please fuck me. God, please do it now!”

“Good boy,” Indra says, and finally, finally presses forward. Indra has prepared the boy so well that he’s able to slip his cock deep into Sherlock’s arse in one long, slow, heavy glide. 

Sherlock moans from the core of his chest as Indra seats himself in his body. For a long moment, Indra is still, just savouring Sherlock’s grasping tightness.

“Do I feel good?” Sherlock asks, his voice sounding somehow younger.

“You feel exquisite, Sherlock,” Indra says, running his hands tenderly down Sherlock’s body, his fingertips catching at those little nipples, skimming his hard chest and flat belly. “What about me, Sherlock? Do I feel good inside you?”

“You feel so big. Oh god, I can feel every pulse. I want, I want to take it. Please, Indra,” Sherlock says. “Please move.”

Indra sets his mouth against Sherlock’s nape, turns the kiss into a bite. “You’ve been such a good boy, Sherlock. I think you’ve earned a good seeing-to.” 

“Oh yes. Please.” Sherlock is wriggling back against Indra in the most erotic way, clearly reaching after more pressure on his sensitive gland. It gives Indra a wicked idea. He draws away from Sherlock, who groans with frustration. 

“Get your knees under you, beautiful boy. That’s right. Push your face and shoulders into the bed.” Oh, the sight of Sherlock with his wrists lashed to Indra’s headboard, his arse held high, just begging to be penetrated…incomparable. 

Indra kneels behind him, holds his cock once more against Sherlock’s slick opening. “You have a hungry bottom, Sherlock, do you know?” Indra says conversationally, pressing just hard enough to let the head pop inside the ring of muscle. “You were made for sex. Made to be fucked hard.”

“No. I was made to fuck hard,” Sherlock growls against the duvet. “This…is only for you.” Touched, Indra grins. Perfect.

“Then show me, Sherlock. Since you’re so determined to do the fucking. Go on. Fuck yourself.” Indra widens his thighs and waits. And waits.

He can almost see into the workings of Sherlock’s mind. He wants so badly just to be fucked, to passively receive that sensation, but Indra has refused to move. If Sherlock wants to feel it, he’ll need to actively reach for Indra, become the driving force of his own violation. Indra watches him struggle with the humiliating prospect, then sees the moment that he gives in to the force of his desire and, resigned, slips further down into subspace. 

With a tiny, anguished sound, Sherlock begins to roll his hips, his back undulating sensuously under Indra’s hands. Indra allows himself a sigh as Sherlock pushes backward, gently impaling himself. Slowly, gradually, his bound wrists thrust forward almost in a pose of prayer, Sherlock finds a rhythm, begins to groan out his pleasure as he finds the perfect grind of his hips to work Indra’s cock against that sweet spot deep inside.

“Good boy,” Indra whispers. “So very sensitive.” He hunches his body over Sherlock’s, giving him leverage to push back farther, to take Indra to the hilt. Greedily, Sherlock reaches for everything he can, and cries out as Indra stretches new places inside him. Very deliberately, Indra places his hands on either side of Sherlock’s head. 

“Now,” he says in Sherlock’s ear. “I won’t move from this position until you come, or until you give me your safeword.” Sherlock, of course, understands immediately, and gives a deep moan of despair. 

“I’ve never…god, Indra. Oh my god.” Sherlock’s hands are bound. Indra’s hands will not move from their place on the bed. And Sherlock must climax, somehow.

“You can make it happen, Sherlock. I can see how much you’re enjoying this, piercing yourself so deeply. You’re getting closer every moment. Keep working yourself, Sherlock. Just keep holding the tension inside you, build it. Surrender to the sensation. Think about nothing but my cock filling up your tight little arse.”

“What if…you come first?” Sherlock gasps, never stopping his movements. 

“That sounds almost like a challenge,” Indra says, and licks his lips. 

Sherlock’s bound hands spasm into fists, and he pushes himself back on Indra harder than ever. The boy is so slick, so hot, so desperate, and after long minutes Indra finds himself calling on a lifetime of techniques to hold back his orgasm. Sherlock is riding him hard now, but Indra is a master at delaying his gratification, and Sherlock is always in deeper trouble.

Finally, Sherlock slows, then stops, his body grown sleek with sweat. He hangs his heat and sobs.

“Indra. I can’t. God, I’m so close. So bloody close. But I can’t get over the edge.”

“I’ll fuck it out of you, filthy thing,” Indra growls. “If you beg me.”

Without a moment of hesitation, Sherlock cries out. “Please, Indra, please fuck me, please. I need to come, I need you. Please, Indra.”

“Beautiful boy,” Indra says, at long last allowing himself to thrust freely into Sherlock’s body, savouring his excited gasp as the change in sensation pushes Sherlock steadily up against his climax. “Why me, Sherlock? Why do you crave to submit to me, and no one else? Tell me!”

“You’re kind,” Sherlock moans, just as Indra gives his arse a particularly vicious thrust. “You care. You’re fucking gorgeous. You require my best. Oh, fuck, Indra. Don’t make me…oh god. Oh god!”

Indra hears, actually hears Sherlock coming forcefully onto the bed, even as he feels Sherlock’s arse pulsing and quivering around his cock. “Good boy, my good boy,” Indra murmurs, and lets himself release, loses control inside Sherlock, hot pleasure coursing through him as he spills deep inside that plush bottom.

When Indra can think again, he collapses forward, pushing Sherlock down to lie flat on the bed. He draws out the condom, pulls the quick-release loops on Sherlock’s bonds. Finally, he gathers the boy’s shaking body against his own.

After long minutes, Indra ventures to speak. “That was intense. You were magnificent. Thank you, Sherlock.” He runs a hand down Sherlock’s cheek and isn’t too surprised to find that it’s wet with tears. 

“Indra,” Sherlock whispers. “Do you still love me?”

Indra frowns, pushes himself up on one elbow to look down at Sherlock. “Yes, I do. I told you so less than one hour ago.”

“I failed,” Sherlock says, turning his face away. “I don’t…I don’t think I know how to love, Indra. I don’t even want to.”

“I said before. There’s no need for you to return the sentiment, Sherlock. There’s plenty of love in my life, and I see you as a student---“

“I’m a poor one,” Sherlock says, his voice flat. “There’s something dead in me, Indra. I can see…I can see people clearly, and I can see the truth of things. And love…it’s just a lie. A lie our bodies tell us, to trick us so we’ll make children, share our food, form tribal alliances. Survival mechanism. Dangerously outdated.”

Indra just smiles. “You’re wiser than that, Sherlock. And someday you’ll realise it. Someday you’ll meet someone. Some gentle, patient, generous man or woman who will change your mind.”

“Then they’ll drag me kicking and screaming,” Sherlock mutters. 

“I hope so, Sherlock. I hope so.” And Indra smooths the sweat-soaked curls away from Sherlock’s brow, and sets a gentle kiss there.

 

FIN


End file.
